


Will you be coming home?

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eskel and Lambert are the best wingmen, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, I have completely made up Jaskier's background and I don't care, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Monster Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sassy Ciri, Vesemir is Tired, canon is my playground and I am a small child with a chainsaw and a shovel, he's just a huge dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: At fifteen, Julian hires a bodyguard and runs away.At twenty, he's quite happy.At twenty-five, he's fucked.
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 131
Kudos: 476
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Fifteen

**Author's Note:**

> This is enormous and I'm scared of it but I have some chapters done and a little bit of plot planned, it's cool it's fine it's fine

The Witcher was sitting by himself at the end of the bar. His hood was up, but Julian could see a nose, a strong chin with a cleft, and a tight mouth. His shoulders were bowed, and his body seemed to droop, but people were still muttering that he was a dangerous ne’er-do-well and the children should stay away from him.

No one cared about Julian, though.

He slipped away from listening to the bard sing the same tired ballad, and sauntered through the press of rumbling people to the bar. Jakob saw him coming and gave him an exasperated look, but pushed a mug of milk across the bar to him. Julian grinned, and made his way to the Witcher.

“So!” He hopped up on the stool, cursing the fact that his growth hadn’t come in yet. At least his voice wasn’t cracking like Hubert’s anymore. “Mr. Witcher, sir! What brings you to our humble little town?”

The Witcher sighed. “Go away, kid,” he said.

“Well that’s rather rude,” Julian sniffed, and sipped his milk. It was about to sour, but he choked it down. “I just want to know what could draw a Witcher here. There aren’t any monsters in _our_ woods.”

The Witcher finally turned his head, glaring down at Julian with piercing golden eyes. Julian’s breath deserted him, because those eyes were _gorgeous_ , in a face carved by a master sculptor who knew exactly how to appeal to youngsters like Julian. Sure there was a scar over his eye and some scratches on his cheek that hadn’t healed all the way, but that just added a thrill of danger to his face.

“I said go away,” the Witcher repeated, a little more forcefully.

“Manners, sir!” Julian retorted, putting his hand to his chest. “Are innocent questions illegal now?”

“Drop it, Julian,” Jakob ordered wearily as he plodded over. “Apologies, Mister Witcher; Master Julian doesn’t know when to leave people alone.”

“I do too!” Julian snapped, and winced inwardly at the childishness of that answer. He was fifteen now, nearly an adult, and he still couldn’t help speaking like a kid at times. “Besides, if there’s something happening, shouldn’t Mother be told?”

Jakob looked like he wanted to say something, then sighed and shook his head. “Go home, Master Julian,” he said. “It’s nothing to do with your folks. It’s city problems.”

“The city is part of the county,” Julian argued. “Therefore, as one of the family tasked with running the county—”

“City is city and castle is castle. Go home.”

Julian saw there was no point pushing the issue, and scowled, before thunking his mug of milk back on the bar and leaving, doing his best not to stomp like a petulant child. Why didn’t anyone _tell_ him things anymore?!

~~~\0/~~~

Jakob watched Master Julian leave with a heavy heart. Poor little boy. If he’d been of city folk, he could’ve been protected… Ah, well. Everyone was always telling Jakob he was too patient with Master Julian for his own good. Maybe that’s why Julian kept coming back.

“How old was that kid?”

Jakob blinked, and turned to the Witcher. “Ah… come again?”

Those cold yellow eyes were steady—a wolf’s steady stare. “How old was he?” the Witcher repeated.

“Master Julian? Oh, he’s about fifteen. Still doesn’t know when to shut up. Sorry he was bothering you, Mister Witcher.” Jakob picked up the boy’s mug and turned to leave—then stopped, and frowned down at the mug. Then he turned back sharply. “If you get an invitation up to the castle, will you… check on him? There’s some of us here who worry.”

The wolf blinked in surprise, but the rest of his face was blank. “You… want me to watch him?”

“Not watch. Just look in on him, mebbe. He’s just a kid, and the castle isn’t… safe.”

The wolf—the Witcher nodded slowly. “I will do my best,” he promised.

Jakob nodded in relief. Everyone knew that Witchers kept their word. “Thank you, Witcher.”

~~~\0/~~~

Julian’s manservant, Kim, hustled him to his rooms with much disapproving clucking and sharp comments about the state of his boots. Julian rolled his eyes, but let Kim shoo him along. At least with Kim around, his brothers were less likely to catch him.

Hubert was alright, just a year younger than Julian; but Lato and Ozimby, the twins, they were… not nice. Not at all. Julian shuddered, feeling sick just thinking about them.

“Off with those hideous boots!” Kim snapped, and Julian hopped on first one foot, then the other, as he yanked off his boots and dropped them on the hearth in his bedchamber. “Clothes, off! You should have dressed for dinner an hour ago!”

“I already had dinner!” Julian complained, dragging off his clothes anyway. “It’s not like anyone misses me when I’m not here.”

“Your mother, the Lady of this place, _does_ miss you,” Kim snapped, and began dressing Julian with precise, firm movements. Julian allowed this, though really, he could put these clothes on by himself if he were allowed. Wash his hands, comb his hair (which never stayed neat so why bother?), clean his face. Soft leather slippers instead of hard-soled boots. Julian got the impression from looking at the way his brothers dressed that he was not as fashionable or grown-up as them—and that rankled. Why should Lato, who regularly scuffed his footwear to the point of destruction, be allowed handsome new boots every time? Why was Hubert, who refused to eat slowly or politely, allowed the most expensive silks and brocades when he was just going to spill on himself?

Julian had perfect manners, had learned grace and deportment all on his own, and was the acknowledged artist of the family; so why was _he_ dressed like a merchant’s ten-year-old child?

He knew why. Mother hated him. Mother, Father, his brothers, even his little four-year-old baby sister. His entire family hated him. The only people who cared were his tutor and Kim—and they could both be replaced at any time. So of course Julian would be humiliated in the most subtle yet hurtful ways. It was a good thing none of them knew how much he loved riding, or he would be without a horse within days and the dogs would be much fatter.

Kim hurried him to the stairs to the dining room, but went no further; Mother didn’t like Kim, either, and if she saw him she would be very angry. So Julian took a deep breath and descended the stairs alone.

He was not announced. That was good. He was able to slip all the way up to the head table without anyone noticing him. Hubert noticed when Julian sat beside him, but no one else.

“You’re late,” Hubert hissed, as the servants came out with the food.

“I was busy,” Julian whispered back, craning his neck to see where they were placing the asparagus. One plate beside Lato, who ignored it; one beside Mother, who took a few stalks with no enthusiasm; and one… right in front of Julian. He beamed at the servant and whispered, “Thank you!”

The servant smiled back, briefly, before walking away.

Hubert took three stalks of asparagus and looked baffled as Julian scooped seven on to his plate, adding a roll, some eggs, and a bit of cheese to round his plate out. He didn’t like roasts or boiled vegetables or fancy dishes with so many spices you couldn’t even tell what the flavor was supposed to be; he preferred plain fare, with some pan-seared asparagus on the side. None of his family were stupid enough to take away his favorite foods, when they hated them and the foods weren’t that fancy anyway. So Julian ate quite happily, and soon his tummy was full. No one spoke to him during dinner. He expected that. He didn’t have much hope that he’d be called on to join the minstrels, either; everyone was there, and none of them were drinking more than usual. They could barely be heard over the visitors and household all talking at once.

Julian finished eating, tried to catch Father’s eye, failed, and sighed heavily, waiting impatiently for dessert. After that course, he’d be free to leave. He hoped.

He spotted someone in a shadowy corner, holding a tankard and looking uncomfortable. He was dressed in black leather with metal studs…

The Witcher!

His hair was much longer than Julian had expected, and very pale—or was it white? He looked so strange, hovering at the edge of the gathering, tensed as if ready to jump, to draw his sword or run or do something _wonderful_ —Julian was leaning forward, trying to make out his features, but he couldn’t at this distance. The Witcher seemed somehow not quite real… or maybe more real than the rest. It was hard to tell.

“Stop staring!” Hubert hissed, tugging on Julian’s arm. He snapped back to himself and leaned back in his seat, just as the Witcher spotted him. Julian couldn’t help his face turning red, and he looked down, snatching a roll to nibble nervously. His heart was beating fast, like it did when he watched his favorite of the guards spar with the others, or when he sneaked down to the servant’s hall on Midwinter and watched the maids dance with more vigor than any noblewoman.

“Oh no,” Hubert murmured sadly. “You’ve been spotted. I hope he doesn’t kill you.”

“He won’t,” Julian replied softly. “He didn’t kill me earlier, at the tavern, why should he kill me now? Are you going to finish your asparagus?”

Dessert was cake, the same bland crumbly stuff with thick, bitter frosting that they always had. Julian sighed and ate his share, because he still remembered his nursemaid scolding him for wasting food. Hubert followed his lead, even though he hated the cake even more than Julian did.

Afterwards, while the servants were clearing things off the tables, Julian slipped away and joined them, sure that no one would notice his departure—

“Julian,” Mother called.

He froze, and turned back to the head table with his sweetest smile. All eyes were on him. He suppressed a shudder. “Yes, Mother?” he replied.

“Come sit,” she ordered calmly.

So Julian trotted back to his seat, ignoring the smirks and cold looks. Everyone knew he was only kept around as a punching bag for his brothers (and sometimes his father); everyone knew that when he failed to sneak away, he was punished.

Well, that would soon change. Julian had already been preparing; he was going to run away, to Oxenfurt, and hope they’d accept him, even though he was four years too old for the youngest classes and five years too young for the real university classes. He was almost done packing. He may even finish tonight.

If Mother let him.

Finally, the family retired to a parlor. Mother looked at Julian as she sat on a couch, and raised her eyebrow. He dutifully went and sat beside her. His little sister was already in her nursery, probably squalling. Hubert, Lato, and Ozimby sat in chairs across from Jaskier and Mother. Father sighed as he settled back in his armchair.

“Well, lads,” Father said, “I think it’s time you come clean. What are you all preparing for tonight?”

Julian frowned, confused, and glanced at his brothers. Lato was scowling at the floor; Ozimby picked at his trouser leg, a nervous habit. Hubert looked as bewildered as Julian felt.

“Lato,” Father said forebodingly.

“It was just going to be a joke,” Lato muttered.

“He came up with it,” Ozimby cut in quickly, talking fast and flinching as Lato’s head snapped up and around to glare at him. For the first time, Julian wondered if Ozimby was as scared as him when it came to the eldest brother.

“Threatening your brother with swords was going to be a “joke”?” Father asked dryly.

“That is hardly amusing, boys,” Mother added tartly.

Julian wondered for a moment if it was him his parents were worried for… then dismissed the notion. They wouldn’t care if it were him. Poor Hubert. The twins could be very terrifying when they wanted.

Father read the twins a long lecture, then turned to Hubert and gave _him_ a lecture on bad influences (Julian thought Father meant him).

And then Father turned to Julian, eyes hard, face impassive beneath his beard, and asked in deceptively smooth tones, “And why are you packing a bag, Julian?”

“I’m not, Father,” Julian protested, pulling off slightly-indignant innocence perfectly. “I don’t have anywhere to go, even if I did.”

“That’s very true, Julian,” Mother said icily. He looked up at her and was startled by the naked disgust on her face. “You have nowhere. So you better empty that bag and think about what to do with your life _besides_ run away.”

Julian couldn’t think of how to answer. So he just stared back, until she looked away, to the twins, who were both staring at Julian with surprised expressions. Hubert was staring at his knees.

There was more, but Julian couldn’t remember it. When the brothers were dismissed, they all bowed and left in order of eldest to youngest.

Of course, once they were far enough down the hall, the twins whirled, grabbed Julian, and slammed him back against the wall, looming over him.

“What makes you think you can go anywhere?” Lato hissed.

“We’ll find you no matter where you hide,” Ozimby growled.

Julian didn’t know what to say to that. Finally, the twins got tired of his silence and let go, walking away with quick, angry strides. Hubert was gone, probably run to his room. Julian took a deep, shuddering breath, and went to his own chambers. He was leaving tonight.

~

Kim was a heavy sleeper. Julian still walked with care, opening the clothespress as silently as he could, opening his trunk with his camping gear so slowly it made him sweat—but better sweat than a squeaky hinge.

Julian knew how to pack for a long hike out. He’d done it before, when Father thought a few days in the woods would do Julian good. When he’d finished packing his saddlebags (he kept them in his room after the first few times Ozimby sabotaged them), he dressed carefully, put on his warmest, drabbest cloak, slung the bags over his shoulder, and quietly stepped out of his room.

He knew the guard-patrols to the second; and he knew there were never patrols inside the castle itself. So he felt quite confident he wouldn’t be missed until it was too late. Still, he kept his eyes and ears sharp, and walked as softly as he could, heading for the servants’ stair.

He nearly ran right into the Witcher.

Julian squeaked, and backed up, cowering as the Witcher glared down at him.

“What are you doing?” the Witcher growled.

“Running away,” Julian whispered.

The Witcher narrowed his eyes. Then he muttered, “Not a bad idea. You can be bait.”

“Bait?!” Julian squeaked, eyes going wide.

“Assassins. You be bait, I kill them, and in return I get you the fuck out of here. Deal?”

Julian barely hesitated, holding out his hand to shake. “Deal, sir.”

The Witcher shook his hand, and then gestured for Julian to pass him. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, Julian continued his walk.

“Why go to the servant’s hall?” the Witcher whispered, and if Julian didn’t know better he would think he was curious.

“Less chance someone will see who will tell,” Julian hissed back, beginning to tremble. “Quiet, please.”

The Witcher was a silent shadow as Julian crept through the castle, and finally found the empty hall that served various garden doors. He allowed himself to hurry a little, aiming for the herb garden—

The orchard door suddenly opened silently, and five dark shapes with gleaming blades slipped inside, closing the door—and then noticing Julian.

He started shaking, and began very slowly to back up.

“Fuck!” hissed one of the dark shapes, and then suddenly they were flowing towards him, blades at the ready.

A hard hand shoved Julian aside, and he obligingly hit the wall and slid down, curling up to be less of a target as he watched the Witcher silently demolish these assassins. Julian’s eyes widened at the blood pooling on the floor, and the glazed eyes of a head that landed scant inches away from him.

Then it was done. Julian gave a tiny sob, but before he could go into hysterics, the Witcher grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet. “Go!” the Witcher hissed.

Julian fled, running with no regard for secrecy, and when he reached the door to the herb garden he opened it and stumbled out without thinking about the guards on the walls.

Not that the guards noticed him. No one ever did.

But the paths were paved, and his boots made noise on them. So he had to go slowly, still shaking, and finally he reached the gate between the garden and the stableyard. He took a deep breath, checked with the stars and the guards on duty—Jem always slouched, Mala jiggled his leg, they were always set on this end of the wall at the perfect time for sneaking—and crept through.

His horse, Jaskier, a dun-colored beauty that he loved with all his heart, was asleep, but woke the moment Julian whispered her name. She came to the front of her stall and bobbed her head, shoving her nose against Julian’s chest. He kissed her forehead quickly, then slipped into the stall to begin saddling her.

“The gates are open!” a guardsman shouted from outside. Julian jumped, and looked around with fear. “The gates are—”

There was suddenly more shouting, battle-cries, and Julian shrank against his horse, trembling. What? What was happening? Why tonight, oh god, why tonight—

The Witcher appeared from the shadows, hood back, sword free in his hand. His eyes seemed to glow. “Mount up,” he told Julian sharply. “We can leave through a side door.”

“Do you have a horse?” Julian asked, even as he mounted.

“Yes. She’s in the city. I’ll fetch her when we get there.” The Witcher grabbed Jaskier’s bridle, making her snort, but Julian soothed her and she followed the Witcher out of the stable. Julian didn’t know how they did it, but somehow they snuck out the side door that Julian had always thought was too rusty too open, but that had been left ajar by intruders; no one saw them, no one bothered to yell about thieves or kidnapping.

They escaped into the forest as silently as a horse and a Witcher could manage.

The Witcher stopped, and told Jaskier, “Do not move,” as if she were the one in charge and Julian was not her rider. Then he disappeared off into the forest, towards the city. Julian fidgeted, and stroked Jaskier’s mane with trembling fingers. They were fine. They were safe. They were going to get away clean. Weren’t they?

The sound of another horse, coming from the way the Witcher went. Julian tensed, and Jaskier rumbled, but it was only the Witcher, on a mare of hardier stock than Jaskier. The horses eyed each other, as the Witcher said softly, “We’ll have to ride for several hours. No complaints.”

Julian nodded vigorously, and when the Witcher turned his horse and rode through the trees, Julian followed.

His heart should have sunk at the news that they would not be stopping for a while. Instead, it rose. They would be long gone by the time anyone thought to look for him. Maybe the attack on the castle would keep everyone so busy that they wouldn’t realize he was gone for a few days. They would be well on their way by then—perhaps even halfway there. Julian began to smile, giddily, as they rode softly through the woods to a deer trail that Julian used to follow when he wanted to get away and hide, but not risk a twisted ankle. The Witcher chose to ride it, and Julian nodded wisely to himself. Even shod hooves would be lost in the dry dirt, since the deer were in the habit of taking this path every morning.

The sun had risen when they hit a proper road made by humans. The Witcher stopped, and turned, beckoning. Julian nudged Jaskier into pulling level with him.

“Where are you planning to go?” the Witcher asked.

“Oxenfurt,” Julian replied promptly.

The Witcher raised one grey brow. “That’s a long way, youngster,” he commented dryly.

“If you ride with me halfway there, I’ll pay you,” Julian offered. “And we can stop whenever you find a job.”

The Witcher narrowed his eyes at Julian and thinned his lips. Julian looked back, somehow not at all afraid. Witchers were horrible and heartless, and probably predators; but this one seemed a decent sort, and Julian had always been a good judge of character. He wouldn’t hurt Julian. It was just fact, just something he knew without thinking; this Witcher would not hurt him.

“You don’t have any money,” the Witcher challenged finally.

Julian pulled back his cloak to show his purse, bulging slightly with all the coin he’d stuffed in it. Then he fished out the two other purses hidden in his shirt. And then he reached into his boot and brought out the special package he’d made, long and thin, to hold even _more_ money.

The Witcher’s eyes widened.

“I saved up and stole as much as I could,” Julian explained, hiding it all again. “My parents blamed my brothers and my brothers blamed each other. They all think I’m too stupid to know how to steal and sneak.”

“Hmm.” The Witcher rubbed his chin, gazing off into the distance as he thought. Then he finally said, “Alright. Only halfway.”

“And we’ll stop for jobs,” Julian said firmly. “You need more coin, more often than I have.”

The Witcher gave him a sour look, and he grinned. “What’s your name, anyway?” he asked impulsively. “I’m Julian.”

“...Geralt.”

~

Geralt was a bad riding companion. Or a good one. Julian had never liked silence, but he bit his lip and stayed quiet until they were out of the county. Then words flooded out of him in a torrent. Geralt never told him to shut up, though his face grew more and more annoyed as the day wore on.

Julian did not complain about his aching body as they rode, and rode, and rode. They stopped to rest the horses and let them drink, and Julian took a swig from the water bottle he’d remembered before running away, but as soon as the horses were ready, Geralt ordered Julian to mount up. Jaskier didn’t have Geralt’s horse’s stamina, and soon began to snort and labor. Julian finally asked for another halt, for his horse’s sake; and Geralt sighed heavily but allowed it.

Luckily, it was night. Julian convinced Geralt to let him sleep, and the horses too. While Geralt brushed his horse and murmured kindly to her, Julian and Jaskier drank from a stream. Julian drank too fast and got a stomachache, then remembered that he hadn’t eaten all day, and that might be why he was feeling dizzy and sick. He was fumbling for his trail-bread when Geralt grunted, “Kid. Get over here.”

“A minute,” Julian mumbled, and found the bread. Then he turned and walked over to Geralt. He held up the bread to Geralt. “Do you want some? It’s supposed to give a lot of energy.”

Geralt frowned. “No,” he said shortly. Then he showed Julian a tiny potion bottle, with swirling, shimmering lavender liquid in it. “This is for energy. You can have it in the morning. You won’t need to eat all day, but you’ll sleep twelve hours.”

“Oh! That’s handy.” Julian reached for it, and Geralt closed his hand around it.

“Word of caution,” the Witcher added, “You’ll be five times as hungry. Don’t try to sate that hunger all at once, you’ll make yourself sick. But we should be able to get pretty far.” He looked over at Jaskier, drooping with exhaustion. “I have one for horses, too. Roach is strong; your horse isn’t. In the morning, though.”

Julian nodded. He ate some bread, had another drink, set up his tent, and went to sleep.

In the morning, he peed, saddled and loaded Jaskier, and then took the little bottle Geralt handed him and drank all two sips of the potion. A lightness took him then, a bubbling kind of calm happiness, and he smiled at Geralt as he handed back the bottle.

“That’s a lot nicer than the potions our magician brewed,” he said, and his voice sounded hazy to his ears.

“Mount up,” Geralt told him, and fed some herbs to Jaskier. She snorted, and shivered, then stamped her hoof and threw up her head. Her eyes were bright, and she seemed suddenly much more lively. Julian grinned and mounted.

They rode even farther that day, and Julian felt hazy and dreamy the entire way. He talked about whatever entered his head, and he wondered a time or two why the corner of Geralt’s mouth kept twitching.

Then he said something about Geralt having the most beautiful golden eyes and the Witcher’s mouth tightened and he said sharply, “Shut up, Julian.”

Julian blinked, but shut up for a moment. He couldn’t help it, though, thoughts of Geralt’s eyes brought up thoughts of other beautiful people, and he found himself admitting to Geralt that, while his older brothers flirted relentlessly with women, he himself had never really seen the appeal. Now, Liam, the guardsman with a scar on his chin and hair so black it shone blue in the sun, _he_ was handsome, but Julian had never had the courage to tell him so. And now he’d never get that chance. Oh well. Liam had a lover anyway, one of the other guards. He wouldn’t have appreciated a child trying to flirt with him.

Geralt snorted. Julian smiled. That was as close to a laugh as he’d ever gotten out of _anyone_ , and he felt strangely proud.

They reached an inn just when the sun was halfway down the horizon, and Julian suddenly felt the haze fall away. Now he was tired, _exhausted_ , on the edge of passing out—Geralt dismounted from his horse and caught Julian easily as he slid off of Jaskier. Julian was awake only just long enough to hear Geralt say something about a bed for him, and then everything went dark.

~

He woke in a lumpy bed in a room that stank like piss and ale, and before he could even begin to panic about not knowing where he was, his stomach growled so loud he was sure everyone in the building could hear it. That reminded him; he didn’t know where he was because he’d fallen asleep, because Geralt had given him a potion, because they were trying to get away from…

Blood on the floor, a severed head at his feet…

Julian whimpered.

A knock on the door, and he flung himself upright, scrubbing the beginning of tears out of his eyes. He was on his way to Oxenfurt. He was fifteen, he’d hired a Witcher as an escort, and he was on his way to Oxenfurt. That was all anyone needed to know.

The door opened before he could call a come in, and Geralt stood there, eyeing him critically.

“Good,” he said. “Right on time. Get up.”

Julian nodded, and slid out of bed, startled to find that his boots, jacket, and purses had been removed. The boots were beside the bed, the jacket was draped over the stool, but his money—

“I paid for your room with your coin,” Geralt said, as if reading his mind, “Don’t worry about where the rest went. Just get up.”

“Alright, alright,” Julian muttered, pulling on his boots. His stomach growled again and he felt faint, but he fumbled on his jacket and followed Geralt out of the room and down the stairs.

Breakfast was plain, but Julian didn’t care. He ate all of it, even though the porridge looked like vomit and tasted like wet sawdust, and drank the entire tankard of milk, when usually he hated milk in the morning. He ate the second helping, too, that was placed in front of him, and barely heard the woman standing behind him say sharply to Geralt, “Now, don’t you go glarin’ at _me_ , Witcher. This boy is _hungry_ , and I _will_ be feedin’ him. Honestly, men! You have no idea how to care for children.”

“Not a child,” Julian muttered, and polished off the porridge.

“Sure you’re not, love,” the woman said sarcastically, and patted his head gently. Julian looked up, startled. No one had touched him kindly like that in five or six years. The woman had greying-brown hair and tired brown eyes and a wrinkled brown face, but when she saw Julian’s astonishment, that face turned sad. “Oh, love, I’m sorry you got caught up in Witcher business,” she said.

“I hired him,” Julian replied without thinking. “I needed an escort. He seemed strong enough.”

“A likely story. Would you like a third helping?”

“No thank you, madam. I’m full.”

“Hmph.” She patted his cheek. “Let me pack you a lunch, as well. No arguing,” she said sternly, when Julian opened his mouth. “We can afford to give you a bit of feed for the road.”

He nodded meekly, surprised at this brisk kindness. And from a stranger! He might have been less startled if it had been Jakob, back home, but still.

Geralt looked positively angry, if the set of his shoulders and the stony expression were anything to go by. Julian guessed it was the delay. He stared at his plate and bowl, trying to decide if it would be a bad idea to practice singing on the road if Geralt was going to be angry. He decided it must be.

The woman gave him two very large pasties, and when he started to object, she interrupted with, “You’re a growing boy. You need to eat.”

They left soon after. Julian held out as long as he could… but at noon, he absolutely couldn’t wait. He took out the pasties and devoured one so fast his stomach hurt. He had just dug out the second when he heard Geralt’s stomach growl.

Julian turned and held out the pasty to Geralt. Geralt blinked, looked at the food, then Julian, then the food again. Julian noticed how he looked different in the sun, with no herbs or giddiness fogging his vision. Geralt looked very tired, and the gaze on the pasty was fierce enough to be frightening.

“Eat it,” Julian said impatiently.

Geralt took the pasty gingerly, and ate it. Julian deliberately didn’t look, but he felt a little proud. He always did, when people agreed to share. He had made many friends among the beggars, the prostitutes, and the homeless by giving them food and coin, and they were the ones who warned him about thieves and murderers, told him when he needed to run home or find a place to hide, had even quietly given him their most precious mementos when they were dying and told him to dispense with them as he saw fit. He had kept most of the mementos and cried over them, but eventually he just started giving them to the under-maids, the pot-scrubbers, the lowest of the household; there was a maid with a golden locket and chain with a clipping of Julian’s hair (her idea, not his), and the pot-scrubber had worn the necklace of wood and glass beads proudly, and so many other small things of no value to anyone else passed from Julian’s hands to those who would admire and treasure them.

Julian got out his trail bread, and this time, when he offered, Geralt accepted some.

The next village was offering fifteen coppers for the death of a banshee. Geralt sighed heavily, but took the job, used Julian’s money to pay for stabling for their horses at the inn, and told Julian gruffly, “Come, we need supplies.”

“Aren’t you going to hunt them now?” Julian asked, surprised, as he followed Geralt at a trot.

“No. Banshees only come out at night; that’s the best time to hunt them.” Geralt glanced at the few shops, then chose the herbalist as their first stop.

Geralt chose several strange-smelling herbs and paid with his own money, while Julian wandered the shop and looked at all the plants, heavily intrigued.

“What’s this one for?” Julian asked, admiring a large plant composed of thick spikes with tiny spikes on the edges.

“Aloe vera,” the herbalist told him, apparently less frightened of the Witcher when seeing that he had a boy in tow who didn’t seem at all scared or hurt. “It’s for burns, mostly, although some kinds are edible. That one is not. It’s solely for medicine.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Julian murmured, poking the plant. “We don’t have these at home.”

“They don’t grow in the soil of your home,” Geralt grunted. “They’re from the South.”

“You’ve probably seen them in their natural environment, haven’t you, Witcher?” the herbalist said, weakly jovial.

Geralt just nodded. Julian was not so subdued.

“You have? Oh, you have to tell me about it! I haven’t been south of my home fief since I was a baby!”

“Later,” Geralt grunted. Julian pouted. The herbalist smiled in wonder and amusement.

It was the same in every shop they entered and stall they visited; Julian’s wide-eyed curiosity and absolute lack of fear seemed to ease suspicions of Geralt, and by the time dusk was falling, Julian (now carrying three packets of traveling-food and two apples) was fairly sure that he knew how to read the Witcher. When they entered each interaction, he grew tense, terse. When the humans were soothed by Julian, he eased. He also seemed confused. Maybe he just wasn’t used to people being nice. Which was very sad, but Witchers were scary, and people didn’t like scary things. If there were hunters who hunted Witchers, they would be handsomely paid. But then, those hunters would have to be even scarier…

When they entered the inn again, Julian’s head was turned by a young man with a lap-harp singing by the fire.

“Geralt,” Julian said very firmly, “I am going to go request a song.”

“No you are _not_ ,” Geralt growled, grabbing Julian’s shoulder. “As soon as we eat, you’re going to go to your room and _stay_ there.”

Julian looked up at Geralt and narrowed his eyes, thinking. Geralt glared back. Then Julian heaved a sigh and said, “ _Fine_. My feet hurt anyway.”

Geralt nodded and let go of him.

When they had eaten, Julian went to his room, scowling. He shot home the lock (this inn was big enough and fancy enough to require locks with keys), then strolled to the window and peeked out.

He was just in time to see Geralt draw his hood up over his head and melt into the darkness of the streets towards the woods.

Casually, Julian went to the door, unlocked it, and exited. He remembered to lock it behind himself, too.

The inn was crowded, and the minstrel was taking a break for some ale. Julian worked his way through the crowd, and when he reached the minstrel, he asked, “Do you know the Ways To Kill A Demon song?”

The minstrel stared at him, then scoffed. “ _Obviously_ ,” he retorted, his voice quite nasal and his upper class accent atrociously mangled. “I went to Oxenfurt after all.”

Julian bit his tongue before he could point out that an Oxenfurt graduate probably wouldn’t treat his harp so shoddily, and asked, “Can I sing with you?”

The minstrel snorted and sneered, “Yes, of course, Witcher’s brat.” He began to strum the harp, and cleared his throat.

Julian started singing before he could.

_The demons of old are quite a tale,  
But hush, don’t speak of it now.  
We’ll begin with how to cut off their tails,  
And end with their heads on plows._

The inn quieted, and the minstrel gaped, but kept playing. Julian kept singing, feeling the joy of performance fill him. If only he had his lute! But it was back home; no time to cry for it now.

When he finished, the long note held precisely the right length to be impressive without tiring him, he took a deep breath and grinned at the minstrel. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I haven’t heard good harp-playing in a long time.”

Which was was a lie. He’d heard cats in heat more in tune than that harp. But it wouldn’t do to say that.

“Sing another, Witcher’s boy!” someone called. Julian turned, surprised, as whoops and encouragement were added from all corners. He grinned, suddenly elated, and turned back to the minstrel.

“You’ll play accompaniment, right?” he asked, because it was only fair. This man was the musician in residence, after all.

But he shook his head, slid off the stool, and handed Julian the harp. “No, no, not I. You’re too good.”

Julian, surprised but delighted, hopped on the stool, tuned the harp, took a breath, and began his favorite bawdy ballad he’d learned at Jakob’s inn. Roars of glee met the song, and then people were singing along.

He sang for a good three hours, only taking breaks to drink the cider the tavern maid brought him. He didn’t care. He’d sung this long at banquets and parties often back home. His breath was good, and even though he wasn’t as good with a harp as he was with a lute, he still made it sing as well as he did.

But after those three hours, he started coughing, and he was told (with laughs and disappointment and attempts to cheer him up) to give up his seat for the evening, and learn the vigorous shanties the rest of the tavern knew. He’d learn, they told him, patting his back and shoulders. He was good; he was better than anyone here; but he was just a youngster. It would come with practice, the stamina.

So he sat at a table near the fire and hummed along happily as he learned the songs that this village knew and could share. It was brilliant. It was wonderful. It was the best night of his life.

~

In the morning, Geralt woke him with a sharp shake.

“Wake up, boy,” he growled, as Julian groaned and rubbed his eyes. “You earned us breakfast, but we are leaving after you eat. Got it?”

“Yessir, Master Geralt,” Julian croaked, his throat sore and stiff from last night. He struggled upright, but Geralt was already gone. Seeing no point in lazing around, Julian got out of bed—and nearly fell. His entire body was stiff, and then he remembered how, after he’d had his first tankard of unwatered wine in his whole life, he’d agreed to dance with some of the young girls while the minstrel played. It had been fun, dancing and singing and being woozy and fluttery from alcohol. He’d vomited in the chamberpot when he got back to his room, but that was fine. But oh, ye gods, his body ached and his head pounded. He got dressed anyway, and sighed that he couldn’t brush his teeth.

“Kid!” Geralt barked from the hall.

Julian hurriedly swung on his cloak and ran out of the room.

Geralt ate breakfast so fast Julian was worried he might choke, and then stood over Julian impatiently until he finished, too. The tavern wench frowned disapprovingly at Geralt, but said nothing. No one else there seemed happy that Geralt was being so rough, either, and when Julian waved to the innkeeper and called “Goodbye, thank you!”, he barely saw and heard a response before Geralt dragged him into the cool morning air.

“Are we late for something?” Julian yawned, as he mounted Jaskier, who whickered and bent her neck around to nibble his knee in greeting.

“No,” Geralt replied tightly.

And no more would he say until they were past the village bounds. Julian smiled and waved to people who recognized him, and felt a little glow of warmth that some gave him nicknames other than Witcher’s boy when they called greetings; little bird, siren-kid, flower-boy. It was quite nice. He liked it.

They were two hours down the road when Geralt said quietly, “Dismount. We’ll walk the horses.”

Not at all loath to letting Jaskier have her rest, Julian dismounted and walked on the side next to Geralt and the horse he had learned was named Roach. He wondered why Geralt was angry, but decided not to say anything, just hum very gently to warm up his throat.

“You almost gave yourself away,” Geralt interrupted tightly after an hour or so of walking.

“Huh?” Julian replied intelligently.

“Singing like you did. Everyone told me you sounded like a noble child, with your accent.” Geralt finally turned a glare on Julian. “If anyone passes through here looking, they’ll know you were about,” he growled.

Julian snorted in contempt of the idea. “No one will look for me,” he replied flatly, glaring back. “My parents hate me and my brothers will find other targets, hopefully each other. If anyone misses me by now, it’s the beggars and prostitutes, and _they_ can hardly afford to search for me, can they?”

The Witcher’s frown shifted, from furious to merely angry and confused. “Why do you think your parents won’t look for you?” he demanded. “You’re useful.”

“Yes, as a scapegoat,” Julian retorted. Mimicking his mother’s sharp tones, he quoted her: “You’re going to ruin yourself with all this music, Julian. No one will let their daughters marry a man whose only talents are singing. Might as well confine yourself to your rooms until you come to your senses.” Then he lowered his voice to mimic his father, quoting: “You’re lucky you’re a younger son, Julian, or I’d be forced to send you to the king’s court as a knight to beat some manliness into you. You’re a disgrace to this family with your prancing and singing.”

Geralt’s frown was frozen, and he seemed speechless. Julian looked away, to the road again. “Better to be out of their reach and singing than in that castle being shamed for not being cruel like my brothers,” he said tightly. “Better to be homeless and nameless than a disgrace to the family.”

“Better to be a coward than a victim.”

Julian barked a laugh. “True. Haven’t you noticed that cowards live longer outside of tales?”

Silence as they walked. Julian rubbed his eyes on his arm. Damn it. He just wanted to get to Oxenfurt and forget about his family. Was that too much to ask?

They stopped off the road at noon. Geralt grabbed his crossbow and quiver and melted into the woods. Julian ate some bread and brushed both horses, combing tails and manes until they were silky and perfect. Roach snorted angrily and stamped, but when he fed her part of his apple and let her sniff him intently, she agreed to his touch. Jaskier held very still, leaning into the brush and rumbling happily.

Geralt returned with gutted rabbits. While he built a fire, Julian skinned the rabbits and cleaned the bolts Geralt had pulled out of them. When the fire was nice and hot, Geralt took over cooking the meat.

“Stream just a bit away,” he grunted. “Wash your hands.”

Julian nodded and went to find the stream. It was a small one, and rather muddy, but at least his hands were _visibly_ clean. He trudged back to the tiny camp, just in time to realize that he really, really needed to empty his bowels.

“I am going to dig a latrine,” he told Geralt.

“Bury it when you’re done,” Geralt replied without looking up.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

It was hard to dig a proper latrine with just his gardening trowel that he’d stolen before running away, but when he was done, he was rather proud. Then he had to hurry, because his insides were very angry at him.

The rabbit was done when he returned. He tore into it happily, and noticed that Geralt ate faster. There were four rabbits, two for each of them… except Julian finished his first one and said, “I’m done, you can have that last one.”

Geralt glared at him. “You’re growing,” he grunted.

“And you’re bigger than me,” Julian retorted. “I mean it. If you’re hungry, eat it. I can go without.”

“So can I.”

“No. You eat it.”

They glared at each other for a minute, and Julian wondered how long it had been since someone had tried to feed Geralt up. How could a Witcher hunt when half-hungry? Julian was already fat; he could stand to lose weight. Geralt needed to keep his muscle up.

Finally, Geralt snatched the rabbit and ate it. Julian stood and went to get his water skin to hide his triumphant smirk.

The days never had a pattern, but never again did Geralt scold Julian for singing at inns or fetes or celebrations. He often earned food and shelter, and Geralt began to take more and more dangerous jobs. They paid well, and he was good at avoiding grievous injury.

The only time he was injured enough to be laid up for a week, sleeping and eating and not doing much else, Julian sang until his throat hurt so much he could barely whisper, just to make sure Geralt had the things he needed. Geralt was far more careful after that.

Julian wondered if anyone had ever cared about the Witcher as much as Julian did. Maybe it was just the alchemy of time, learning his moods, and discovering that the Witcher was very protective of Julian, but Julian found himself caring about and being protective of Geralt right back. He used his own money to buy Geralt extra food. He insisted on learning at least rough first aid, and how to make healing potions. He went hunting for dinner when Geralt was exhausted and they had little travel-food left.

He started feeling a strange warmth for Geralt, something that made the Witcher more… wonderful. He had seen Geralt covered in monster-guts, he had seen him after two weeks of hard travel with no baths or female companionship, he had seen his eyes flash with fury and hurt when a human screamed insults—but he always seemed brighter, more important, more alluring than any of the pretty girls and handsome boys Julian flirted with. Maybe Julian loved him. He wasn’t sure.

But he did his best to hide it. He was still called “Witcher’s brat” in many places—gossip travels faster than song—but he laughed it off, and ignored the pang of hurt in his stomach when he realized Geralt would probably never see him as more than just a teenager, a child, who had hired him as protection and nothing else. The night he realized he wanted to kiss Geralt, but would never be able to, he cried a little.

And then, one day, they topped a rise, and Oxenfurt was sprawled before them.

Julian’s breath caught, and he felt lighter and more excited than he ever had just singing in a tavern. There. There was his new home. His heart sped up, and he could feel himself smile, as he drank in the sight greedily. The University itself was tucked in the middle of a lively, sprawling town; it was a lovely building, old-fashioned but strongly built, suiting an old university that had weathered three wars. It was also huge.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered in awe.

Geralt only grunted. “Come on,” he said tartly. “You need a bath before you can convince these academic mummies to accept you.”

“Oh! Yes! Absolutely!” He nudged Jaskier into a walk, and she ambled down the road, bobbing her head a little. “Where shall we stay this night?”

“Where shall _you_ stay.”

Julian blinked, and looked over at Geralt. The setting sun turned his eyes so yellow-golden that Julian was almost breathless. But no, that wasn’t important. Geralt’s face was absolutely unreadable, even to Julian, who had been riding with him for a good two months. “You won’t be stopping in?” Julian asked, surprised and a little dismayed.

“There’s never work here,” Geralt replied shortly. “I’ll be off as soon as we reach the gate.”

“But...”

“Shut up, Julian. Save your voice for the entrance exam.”

So Julian shut up, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. He should’ve seen this coming. He should’ve known. They had to part ways eventually. Better it be now, before he was seen with a Witcher.

But he didn’t want Geralt to leave. He really, really didn’t…

“What if I came with you?”

Geralt snorted. “You’d die within four months,” he replied. “And you’re too old to become a Witcher yourself.”

Julian didn’t say anything after that. He did wonder how Geralt had that answer ready, and how he wasn’t surprised—oh. Oh gods. He knew. That’s why he was leaving so soon, he knew, he _knew_ that Julian loved him—

They were almost to the gate, at the point where the road they were on split off and skirted the town. Geralt halted Roach. Julian halted Jaskier.

“Good luck, Julian,” Geralt growled, clapped him on the shoulder, and went on the road away.

Julian stared after him, feeling like someone had stabbed him right in the chest and was twisting hard. His throat felt tight and no matter how hard he blinked, he couldn’t get rid of the tears building up in his eyes.

After who-knew-how-long, Julian turned back to the gate, and nudged Jaskier into a trot. He wiped his cheeks on his sleeve and entered the town.

~

The examiners were old, fusty, and not impressed by Julian’s appearance. His clothes were wrinkled and travel-stained, his boots were dirty, and his hair hadn’t been cut in too long. But they grudgingly allowed him to play for them.

He was given a lap-harp, a lute, a flute, and drums. He played them all perfectly, and felt confidence and peace return with every moment. Yes, he’d fallen in love with a Witcher: but his place was here. Not at the side of a mercenary, but in this esteemed institution. Here, where he could be, and learn, and never hide anything again.

When they told him to sing, he could see the examiners’ eyes widen, and they whispered to each other behind their hands when he was done. Finally, after much checking of each other’s papers and debate among themselves, the dean of the university asked Julian, “What is your full name, boy?”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he answered promptly.

Frowns of confusion. “You were thought dead,” one of the examiners commented.

Julian smiled sunnily. “I’m not,” he replied simply, and did not explain.

~

He was late. The semester had already started. But he was tested, given his classes, allowed to cut his hair, assigned a room and a guide, and filled up with uniforms. He slid right into academic life, delighting in how he was allowed to read at every open moment, and practice his singing and lute-playing whenever he wanted. He made friends. He made enemies. He fell madly in love with one of his fellow students, but he had learned to hide his feelings, so she never knew.

Julian forgot the Witcher.


	2. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learn how inaccurate this alternate history of Jaskier the Bard is more and more every day and tbh, I don't care.

Well, actually, that was a lie.

Julian thought about Geralt often, although less and less so over the years. Other loves came and went, he learned to kiss, to turn his flaws into flirtatious charms, to make his fellow students (and quite a few townsfolk) lust after him greatly—but he never really felt much lust himself. He definitely enjoyed kissing and flirting, but that was all.

He took an alchemy class at the age of seventeen, and when he showed a firm grasp on the properties of even the most obscure herbs, and a talent for making healing salves, creams, potions, and antidotes, it was all over campus in days. When asked, he smiled, shrugged, and said, “I learned on the road.”

He had the most singing stamina and loudest voice of his year-mates, indeed, of any other student; and when asked, he smiled, shrugged, and said, “I sang on the road.”

He turned in multiple unrequited love-ballads that he sang with all the emotion in his heart, that regularly moved his classmates to tears. When asked, he smiled, shrugged, and said, “I had a crush on someone on the road.”

That was his go-to excuse: it happened because of the road, his trip from home to Oxenfurt. And it was usually true. When he heard that he was considered something of an enigma because of it, he laughed so hard he fell over. Two months on the road with a Witcher had taught him quite a bit, but surely not enough to make him an enigma.

He demolished economics class from a foundation of knowing how to bargain and the monetary worth of things, from food to shelter to work to clothing and accessories.

He excelled in learning to fight with daggers (mandatory self-defense classes) because dodging monsters and learning to stab bandits is a great help when traveling.

He learned geography easily, as long as you gave him a moment to close his eyes and picture the landscape, because he’d seen quite a variety of environments.

The only things he weren’t good at were learning new instruments, and getting along with people.

He talked too much. He needled people—classmates, townsfolk, and teachers, just to study how they reacted. He struggled with any instrument without strings, except the flute, and he wasn’t exceptional with it by any stretch of the imagination, though he could pass the exams. His songs ranged from sweeping epics to tender lullabies, which frustrated his teachers, who just wanted him to stick to one genre and perfect it, damn it. And when he was given a bagpipe…

He dropped it in disgust at the first note, though it was by far the best his teacher had heard from a rank beginner, and said, “I’ll never learn it properly. I don’t have the right brain for it.”

But his singing, which had always been good, only improved every year.

He had a rival, though. At first it was friendly; a bit of joshing, gentle shoves accompanied by laughter, real respect for each other. But then they turned eighteen, and Julian flirted with the wrong girl, and Valdo Marx became his sworn enemy.

Valdo had come from a family that had nurtured his gifts and sent him to Oxenfurt with high expectations. Julian envied that, but amicably. It just meant Valdo was a challenger, and that was exciting. But Valdo… had airs. He was conceited. And when Julian charmed the fellow student that Valdo had been courting in secret, things got ugly fast.

Julian tried to be the better man. He tried to ignore the insults, the rumors, the nasty tricks and pranks. He greeted Valdo courteously, though he no longer felt that their rivalry was friendly. He did his best not to antagonize Valdo too much.

But everyone has limits.

The notes-stealing went too far, and Julian retaliated. He slipped a throat-seize potion into Valdo’s drink before a test: he felt bad, and almost apologized when Valdo failed because his voice was hoarse and whiny. But then someone tried to slip _him_ some throat-seize, and he spat it out immediately and didn’t drink anything else all night. Geralt had insisted Julian learn the smells of most common poisons, and throat-seize was made with three.

Sabotage by poison wasn’t the only thing. There was shameless cribbing (mostly on Valdo’s part; Julian knew that Valdo wasn’t as good a composer), ruined notes, torn clothes, mysterious accidents. Everyone stayed far out of the way of this rivalry, and while Julian would have happily let it all go at any point, Valdo was so determined to ruin him that he simply _could not_ refuse to retaliate.

Eventually, during autumn semester of the year Julian turned the glorious age of twenty, Valdo was caught sabotaging _other_ students, and was sent away for a month in disgrace. He could come back later, the dean had said sternly, but only if he promised to stop with these childish tricks.

Julian was glad to see him go.

Two nights later, when Julian and five of his friends went out to get fantastically drunk to celebrate one of their number’s birthday, they chose their favored tavern, which seemed a little less cheerful than usual. With six university students laughing, singing, insulting each other, and getting more and more drunk, the atmosphere started to lighten, and soon the place was quite as lively as any university student could wish. Julian was laughing at another insult at his virginity, when he noticed someone in a dark corner where usually no one sat. He squinted, intrigued, and forgetting his friends for a moment.

Suddenly, his heart turned over, and he swallowed hard. He though he recognized that profile, that hair, those eyes…

His friends snickered, and Bel, the birthday boy, punched his arm. “That’s a Witcher, and I dare you to flirt with him,” Bel murmured, malicious glee on his face. “One gold mark.”

“Make it five gold marks and you’re on,” Julian replied absently, watching the Witcher glare at a lout who was trying to insult him.

His friends seemed astonished, until all five of them scrabbled for their purses. Julian turned away to see them all holding gold marks. “Go flirt,” Joren sneered.

“Fuck yes.” Julian stood, picked up his beer, and slipped through the crowd to the corner where the Witcher sat staring out the window. Gods, brooding like a hero out of a romance ballad. Julian’s heart sped up. All those jokes about his lack of experience were ringing in his head... what would it be like, to share a bed with a Witcher?

He smiled as the Witcher looked up at him, and frowned. “Hello!” Julian said. “May I sit with you?”

The Witcher’s face flickered. Surprised? He looked Julian up and down, quickly; and then he did it again, more slowly, eyes narrowed. Julian’s knees felt a little weak. He told himself it was the alcohol, not the fascinating shifts in the color of the Witcher’s eyes.

Finally, the Witcher nodded, and Julian sat, putting his chin in his hand and grinning cheekily. He had the instinct that his bumbling charm would not work for what he wanted. “My, you look done in,” he said cheerfully. “What happened? Did you wrap up the wraiths in the woods?”

The Witcher’s face, cold and impassive, suddenly became intent. “Wraiths?” he repeated, leaning forward on his forearms.

Julian nodded, surprised. “Did no one tell you?” he asked, genuinely startled. The wraiths had been a problem for a while. “The University put out a reward, probably to get rid of the stupider students. Ten gold marks for proof that you’ve slain a wraith. There’s more than one, though, you can hear them if you go out to the waterfall. I’ve done it three times. Lots of inspiration for ghost tales in the woods at night, with wraiths around.”

“You’re either an idiot or lying,” the Witcher said flatly.

Julian laughed and leaned back in his seat. “Oh, I’m definitely not lying, so I guess I’m an idiot! But really, if you go to the University signboard tomorrow, they renew the poster every few days. If you need a guide to their whereabouts, I’m available.” He smiled again, and repressed a shiver at the keenness of those eyes. Oh, it was like falling into molten honey and gold…

Were Witcher pupils supposed to expand like that when talking about jobs? Julian wondered what his absolute stillness meant.

“Third room to the left, second floor, five minutes,” the Witcher said suddenly, very quietly, and stood, walking away and to the stairs. Julian blinked after him, confused… and then realization dawned.

Directions to his room. Oh, _yes_.

Julian tried to act natural as he drank the rest of his ale, and timed himself carefully, and at five minutes stood casually and strolled to the stairs to the rooms above the tavern. He saw his friends gaping at him from their table, but he didn’t care about them. He just climbed the stairs, starting to shiver with excitement—and a little fear. Twenty years old and he’d never fucked; but tonight that was going to change.

He stood outside the Witcher’s door, chewed his lip for a moment… then remembered the grace of the Witcher’s movements, the firm muscle, the quiet confidence, and his fear crumbled away. He knocked softly, not hesitantly.

The door opened. The Witcher had already taken off his armor, but his pendant gleamed in the light of the few candles in his room. His gaze raked up and down Julian again, and Julian blushed. He wasn’t unattractive, he knew that, and his uniform was still mostly neat, but something about the quiet hunger in the Witcher’s gaze made him feel like he was lacking.

“Come in,” the Witcher ordered, and his voice was softer, deeper. Julian entered without fear.

~

He came so hard he saw stars, and instead of the sharp cry he’d expected, he laughed, feeling so suddenly full of ecstasy. The Witcher came a few thrusts after he did, and it hurt, but Julian didn’t care. This had been a _wonderful_ idea.

“You have classes tomorrow,” the Witcher gasped when he’d pulled out.

Julian, in a rosy fog of post-orgasmic bliss, shook his head, grinning giddily. The bruises on his body from the Witcher’s grip ached, and his ass and back certainly hurt, but he was still too shaky to move, let alone walk all the way back to the University. “We’re on break,” he replied, reaching up to run his fingertips down the Witcher’s sweaty cheek. No one had ever looked this beautiful to him. “I have five more days of nothing to do.”

“Then you’ll be free to lead me to the wraiths.”

“Oh, absolutely!”

“...Can you move?” the Witcher inquired, and there was a strange look on his face; if Julian were to be poetic, which he always was, he’d say it was amusement. It only deepened when Julian flushed in embarrassment.

“Um… I don’t think so,” he confessed in a small voice. “Do you… want me to leave?”

The Witcher looked at him for a moment, frowning, but puzzled, not angry. Julian desperately hoped he would say no.

“That would be best,” he said, and Julian’s heart sank. “But you don’t have to.”

He would have been embarrassed by the way he felt himself light up, if he weren’t so happy. “Can I kiss you again?” he asked. Those first two kisses had been hard and deep, not at all what he expected. He liked slower, longer kisses. He may have been a virgin before tonight, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to kiss.

The Witcher seemed surprised, then lowered his head and kissed Julian. He probably meant for it to be quick, but Julian buried his hand in the Witcher’s hair and kept him close, trying to show him that Julian _did_ know how to do some intimate things. It was delightful, how the Witcher relaxed, one hand slipping under Julian’s shoulders to bring him up, his lips opening very softly for Julian…

The tiniest happy hum slipped from Julian’s throat. Suddenly the Witcher let go, and jerked back, and Julian thumped back, startled, as the Witcher moved away and sat on the edge of the bed, back to Julian, running his hand through his hair. Was he trembling? Julian couldn’t be sure.

“How old are you?” the Witcher asked sharply, his voice suddenly harsh. It made Julian flinch, but he answered readily enough.

“Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one in a few weeks, though.”

“You’re a fucking kid,” the Witcher said, his tone unreadable, still turned away.

“I am not,” Julian protested, struggling upright and wincing as his body shouted for him to lay down again. “I’m perfectly legal, and anyway, my age doesn’t matter. Did you not like that kiss?”

Silence. Julian began to feel cold. The semen on his skin dried, itchy and sticky. He didn’t know how long he stared at the Witcher’s back, tracing every scar with his gaze and wishing he had the nerve to touch them. Why were they familiar?

“It was fine,” the Witcher finally said softly.

“Just fine?” Julian repeated, deciding to try for silliness to break the awful feeling that he’d done something wrong. “I am _wounded_ , sir! I’ll have you know I am the _best_ kisser at Oxenfurt—”

“Shut up.”

He did, confused and a little frightened. More silence. Then he bit his lip and asked timidly, “Should I leave?”

He didn’t even see the Witcher move, but suddenly he was being pressed into the mattress by a heavy body and there was a mouth on his neck.

“No,” the Witcher growled against his skin. “No.”

So Julian didn’t.

~

He collected five gold coins from his friends smugly, and then, when they noticed the myriad marks on his neck, and the cut on his lip (Witcher teeth are sharp), they all handed over another gold mark each.

Julian grinned and made the coins vanish with a sleight-of-hand trick that he’d learned from a charlatan, and perfected to the point where no one could tell what he’d done. No one was shocked by it anymore, but his friends did glare at him.

“Enjoy yourself?” Bel asked sourly.

“Very much so,” Julian replied smugly. His mind kept drifting back to that morning, just before sunrise, when the Witcher had fucked him again, but more gently. It had been… so good. He’d laughed again at the end. And the lazy kiss afterwards…

“Hey!” Someone was snapping their fingers in his face. He blinked and shook himself, and his friends scowled at him, all of them apparently quite angry. “Stop drifting off, asshole,” Garvey snapped. “Sleep with a nice woman some time, you’ll know what _real_ sex is.”

Julian actually laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that statement, but all he said was, “Sure, maybe some day.”

~

He went down to the tavern again that night.

He went with his notebook, a pencil, and a few other things tucked in a bag over his shoulder; a strong healing salve in a little sealed pot, clean bandaging-wool, and a spool of linen bandages, along with a sterilized needle and thread. He had sewn up wounds on cadavers (since he was training to be a wandering bard, he had to know how to do first aid), but he wasn’t exactly sure how to sew a still-bleeding wound. But he would try, if it came to that.

The Witcher was just exiting the tavern, and blinked to see Julian approaching. Julian smiled at him, and said, “This is usually the time I go out. The gatekeepers know me. Do you still want directions?

“What’s with the bag?” the Witcher asked, frowning.

“Oh, just some first aid things and my notebook,” Julian replied, shrugging. “Just in case, you know? I promise nothing dangerous.”

The Witcher eyed him for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Where do you usually hear them?”

“The southern woods, near the smaller waterfall. It’s pretty deep in, but there are a few trails. This way.”

Julian knew better than to talk in the woods—he didn’t want to draw the wraiths to him, just find their usual haunt—but he felt a little silly, his feet crunching leaves and twigs as he walked his favorite path, as the Witcher followed silently. Even his breath was silent. It was unnerving.

Would the Witcher mind a kiss after his hunt? Julian’s face flushed and he was glad the Witcher was behind him. He was so good at kissing… and he’d be leaving after he got his reward. One more kiss, to remember him by.

Focus, Julian.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as they approached the waterfall. His cheeks cooled, then went cold. His hands shook. He had seen the wraiths before, through the trees, and had always bolted for home as soon as he noticed them. But now he was going to stay put, as backup if the Witcher needed it. Not that Julian could fight these things. But he could at least run back and tell people that the Witcher was dead.

His stomach roiled. He didn’t want this Witcher to die.

They came upon the open clearing. There was a log by the river, which was more of a very large stream, and some rocks, and a fire-pit; there hadn’t been fires here since the first death, and the waterfall was absurdly loud in the silence of the woods.

Julian went and sat on the log. The Witcher breezed up beside him and crouched, watching everything with sharp eyes.

“Do they have a usual time?” he murmured.

“Midnight,” Julian whispered, glancing up at the sky nervously. “Sometimes earlier, if there’s prey.” He took a deep breath to steady himself, and stared at the waterfall. “We think there’s three.”

“We?”

“Well. _I_ do. I’ve seen them more often that the others.”

The Witcher frowned. “You’ve seen them and lived?” he asked, in a barely audible growl.

Julian smiled weakly. “I’m a coward,” he whispered. “My legs and lungs are built for running.”

“Wraiths are faster than humans.”

“Maybe they’re just never very hungry when I’m around.” Julian looked away sharply, as he heard a sigh of breeze—but felt nothing. Was it the wind? Or was it the wraiths?

From the way the Witcher’s hand was creeping to his sword, it was probably the latter.

“Don’t move,” the Witcher breathed, and stood so slowly it looked painful. Julian swallowed hard and sat very still, as the Witcher turned in a slow circle, scanning the area.

Something exploded out of the water.

“FUCK!” both Witcher and student shouted, and while Julian jerked backwards and fell off the log, the Witcher drew his sword and slashed with immense precision. The wraith screamed, backing away, then rushed again. Julian scrambled further back from the fight, to give the Witcher room; he couldn’t help with this, the monster was too fast and the hunter too intent. He’d be beheaded before any of them noticed.

Julian fetched up hard against a tree, and stayed in its shade, trembling, as the Witcher drew a shape in the air with one hand, and suddenly the wraith became a lot slower, though it continued to screech and dodge. The Witcher seemed slower, too, but his ferocity remained the same. Julian saw the second wraith glide from the side and behind the Witcher, and yelled without thinking, “Second one behind you!”

The Witcher whirled and his sword cut deep into the second wraith, who screamed and vanished, before reappearing a few yards away in the opposite direction. The first wraith looked very worse for wear, and its screeching was hoarse. The Witcher slayed it with a grunt of effort, then advanced on the second.

Julian’s breath caught. Moonlight gilded the Witcher’s white hair was silver, the snarl on his face brought back so many memories, and his eyes seemed to glow honey-gold.

“Geralt,” Julian breathed, reverent and wondering. “Geralt of Rivia.”

But then his left side began to feel numb with cold, and he automatically looked up. The third wraith stooped over him, its crooked talons reaching and its maw gaping—

Julian didn’t think. He rolled away, scrambled to his feet, and drew his dagger that he always wore against his thigh, under his trousers. It wasn’t silver like the Witcher’s sword, so it wouldn’t be as effective, but surely cold iron could hold it off?

The wraith hissed and glided forward. Julian dropped right out of fear into a calm place where all he saw were the movements of his enemy and the way it flinched from his blade as he sliced one reaching hand. He was better with two daggers, actually, but one was enough to hold off the wraith, and though it teleported many times, the breath of cold on any side warned Julian just enough to duck and spin to face it. He kept track of the terrain he passed over, too, and tried to remember where the Witcher was. Julian was driven towards the river, closer and closer; he knew if he fell in, the wraith would pounce and hold him down. But it was hard to turn the tide and still keep his footing; the grass was slippery, but there were rocks and mud, too.

He was at the edge. He was almost too close—

A shivering shriek, and the wraith spun away from Julian. He lunged, jamming his cold iron blade through its body into what passed for a heart. It shrieked too, and writhed—

“DUCK!”

Julian ducked, and the Witcher’s sword passed cleanly through the wraith’s neck, beheading it.

Julian straightened, and realized he was trembling like a leaf in the wind. His dagger was so cold that his hands were red and chapped. He was also crying, as the immediacy of the situation faded, and he realized he had been closer to death in that moment than he ever had been in his life.

“You… you did good,” Geralt said awkwardly, patting his shoulder heavily. “That was… good technique.”

Julian dropped his dagger and flung himself at Geralt, sobbing against his leather-clad shoulder and wrapping his arms so tightly around Geralt that he heard a grunt. But Geralt was warm, solid, alive, _safe_. Slowly, the chill of near death ebbed out of Julian’s chest, and he could breathe with some modicum of calm. Gods, he wanted to hide against Geralt for days, just… hide. This was too much.

Geralt had wrapped one of his own arms around Julian firmly. When Julian stopped crying, he said quietly, “Let me see your hands.”

Julian drew back slowly, reluctantly, and raised his hands, staring at his own palms dumbly. The skin looked strange, blueish at the fingertips and very red elsewhere. Geralt sheathed his sword and gently took Julian’s hands in his, turning them over and around to inspect them.

“Lucky,” Geralt said, his voice a quiet rumble. “Frostbite isn’t too bad, yet. Here.” He let go and stripped off his gloves, and held them out to Julian. Stiffly, Julian accepted them, and put them on, and almost cried out as the warmth of Geralt’s hands stung his cold skin. He bit his lip hard instead, as two more tears rolled down his icy cheeks.

Geralt picked up his dagger and inspected it, frowning. “Steel shouldn’t do that much damage,” he muttered.

“Cold iron,” Julian whispered, voice hoarse from crying. “It’s mandatory. Steel and iron. The priests bless all blades before they’re given to students. I’m so cold.”

“Iron isn’t much better against wraiths...” Geralt looked up sharply, then. “Cold?” he repeated, frowning harder. Julian nodded, shivering. “Hmm. Let’s get you back to civilization.”

Julian barely remembered the walk back to the town. He remembered Geralt’s comforting hand on his back, and clutching his bag to his chest, and sniffling. But then they were in town, and Geralt had steered him to the tavern and the innkeeper immediately led Julian up to a room where he could lie down after “being caught up in Witcher business”.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbled, as he pulled off the gloves and handed them back to Geralt, who had followed. “I brought him there. Wasn’t caught up.”

“Just lay down, Julian,” the innkeeper told him gruffly, concern on his stern face. So Julian nodded, and laid down, and fell asleep.

He woke late in the morning to a knock on the door. Moving stiffly, he rolled off the bed and shuffled to the door. Opening it, he found eight of his friends from school in the hall.

“Hello,” he said. His throat still hurt.

“Gods, Julian!” Bel exclaimed, “You scared us half to death!”

“Come on, you stupid fuck, let’s get you back home,” Raoul demanded, looking extremely worried.

So Julian was hustled from the inn to the street; the innkeeper refused any coin. Julian remained silent as his friends walked with him, and they were silent too, until they passed through the gate on to university grounds. Then they pounced.

Questions came at him from every direction. Bewildered, but with his shock thawed, Julian answered as many and as quickly as he could. He had to keep repeating that he went willingly, that he’d been stupid and thought he could maybe run for help if the Witcher was injured or killed (he remembered not to give them Geralt’s name). His friends agreed that he’d been stupid and a dolt and a fool, but they refused to believe his staying was willing.

Julian’s history professor met them in the courtyard, and led Julian to the offices of the school officials. He was brought right up to the dean’s office, and shooed in. He didn’t notice he wasn’t the only one there until Geralt stood from one of the chairs in front of the desk.

It was a bad idea to run to Geralt and hug him, but Julian couldn’t hide his relief. “No injuries?” he asked, completely forgetting whose office he was in. “Nothing wrong?”

Geralt shook his head.

“Sit down, Pankratz,” the dean said gently, recalling the student’s attention. He went meekly to the other chair, and Geralt sat as he did. The dean sighed and adjusted his glasses, peering at Julian worriedly. Julian tried to look calm and not like he wanted to curl up in bed for a day and be quiet and small and think about what had happened.

“The Witcher has claimed the reward,” the dean said, “But he also says you deserve a quarter cut. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Only that I don’t think I deserve it,” Julian answered, surprised and embarrassed. “I didn’t really _do_ anything except distract the third one.”

“You fought it, though, Pankratz. You and your iron dagger held off a _wraith_. That is an accomplishment, even if the Witcher was the one who killed it.” The dean nodded to Geralt, who bowed his head briefly. The dean turned back to Julian. “You’re getting seven gold. Witcher, you will retain your thirty, the full third as thanks for saving our brightest star.” Julian blushed fiercely and looked at his knees. “Now, Julian, I will need every detail of this... adventure.”

Twisting his fingers hurt too much, though someone had bandaged them and he could feel that there was a warm, soothing cream on the parts that had turned blue. So Julian hunched his shoulders a little and began the story, leaving out the sex. He said he’d had a tumble with a tavern-wench, he didn’t catch her name, as an excuse for being out all night. He knew no one would believe his friends if they told that he’d lain with a Witcher. He hoped.

Moving on to the trail to the waterfall, Julian remembered to reiterate that it had been _his_ idea to stay, and that the Witcher had told him to go back (he hadn’t, but Julian knew when a lie was better). He raised his head to meet the dean’s eyes as he said, as firmly as he could, “I knew I couldn’t kill them, and I knew I wouldn’t be much use in a fight. But what if something happened and he died? _Someone_ would have to know, so nobody would think he’d run off for whatever reason, and everyone would still know that the wraiths weren’t dead too. It was stupid. I know that. But at least it was of _some_ help, distracting that third one.”

“More than distract,” the dean murmured slowly. “The Witcher says you wounded it gravely, and held your own for several minutes before he slayed it.”

Julian blushed deeply, a tell that he could never control. The dean knew immediately that the Witcher was right, because the corner of his mouth twitched up, and he said gently, “You’re a terrible liar, Pankratz. But thanks to your bravery, that third wraith is dead, too. You have three more days til classes resume. I will extend that by two days for instrumental practice, on account of your hands being injured. Do not get lax, though.”

Julian nodded earnestly. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” He managed a very small smile, and the dean smiled back, sadly.

“Usually students wait until they graduate to do things like that,” the dean sighed. “Ah, well. You were always impatient. Thank you, Julian. As for you, Witcher...” the dean opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small, heavy chest that clinked. He picked up a leather purse and counted out thirty gold coins, making sure that Geralt could see each one, and dumped them in the purse, then held it out. Geralt stood and stepped forward to accept the money. He looked so distant and emotionless. Julian looked up at him and remembered the softness of his features when they had lain together, and wondered why this cold exterior made him sad.

“Thank you, sir,” Geralt said shortly.

“You may go.”

Geralt nodded once, and left, without looking at Julian. Julian twisted in his seat to watch him leave the room, wondering why he felt lost and upset.

No proper goodbyes, then. No kisses. Just money and leaving.

His chest hurt.

The dean cleared his throat. Julian snapped back to the present, and quickly faced forward again. It wasn’t like they’d been lovers, after all. One night together, one hunt that had revealed Julian’s cowardice, it didn’t mean he’d earned more than what he’d already gotten.

“You should go to your room, and sleep,” the dean said gently. “There will be other lovers.”

Julian blushed again, and looked down. “He wasn’t...”

“Pankratz, it’s not uncommon to be exhilarated by danger, and Witchers certainly are dangerous. Go sleep. You’ll feel better in a few days. You are dismissed.”

Julian nodded without looking up, stood, bowed, and left.

He still felt sick with yearning. Was this normal? To fall in love with the same person twice, only to have them leave without a proper goodbye? He rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, hard, and then realized there was a bulky shadow hiding in one of the niches in the wall for statues.

“Geralt?” he whispered, halting immediately.

Geralt slid into the light, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t usually do this,” he muttered, glancing up and down the hall sharply. “I… don’t say goodbye.”

Julian’s heart thumped harder, and happiness bubbled up in him. So Geralt did want to say goodbye! But… he seemed to be having trouble with words. Julian bit his lip, then stepped forward, and raised his hands to cup Geralt’s face in his hands, startling the Witcher.

“Then don’t say it,” Julian whispered, and kissed him.

He really didn’t know how long the kiss lasted. Not long enough. But finally, Geralt pulled away, and asked softly, “Will they run me off if I come back next year?”

Julian smiled, feeling absolutely giddy. “No. No, of course not.”

“Good.” Geralt kissed the tip of Julian’s nose, and the sweetness of the gesture left Julian speechless. “I’ll be back.”

And then he let go and hurried away.

Julian stood there, hands still raised, for a long time, smiling like a fool. He was coming back. Geralt was coming back.

Julian waited until he got to his room to laugh until his belly ached and his chest burned. He couldn’t wait for next year.

~

Valdo returned over winter. Julian was once again thrown into war with him, but this time he did not want to give up. He may be a coward, but he had gone on a hunt with a Witcher, and survived, and nothing Valdo did could make him feel like less of a human being.

Not even spreading the fact that Julian was a man-lover made him flinch. It was true, that he doled out the charm to everyone regardless of gender, and that he started kissing and getting handsy with men as well as women, now that he knew what sex with another man was like. Valdo came from a part of the kingdom that saw sexual relationships between men as the worst way to ruin their honor; but Oxenfurt was a liberal-minded university, and no one cared that Julian was suddenly active in both wings of the dormitories.

He was honestly distressed, the first few times he had sex with other students and he didn’t feel the rush of joy that made him laugh at the end. He did the usual sharp gasp, and once or twice he groaned, but he didn’t laugh. Maybe that had just been because it had been his first time.

Maybe it was just because he didn’t really feel anything for them. He certainly enjoyed the company, and he liked making his lovers feel good, but he didn’t really… _connect_ with them.

This theory was tentatively confirmed when he slept with Bel, his best friend, and laughed when he came. Bel was confused until Julian explained how it had felt, and then Bel grinned and tugged his ear and said, “Then don’t sleep with any of our friends, your laugh is too good to share.”

Julian didn’t feel right around Bel after that remark. But they were still best friends, and once in a while they slept together. But Julian was leaning more and more towards women, and while his female classmates rejoiced, his fellow men seemed unhappy.

Valdo started calling Julian “The Slut of Oxenfurt”. It caught on.

Julian decided not to care. Besides, spring was coming to an end, and after that, summer, when most students would be going home. And after summer came autumn. And in autumn, he knew, he _knew_ , he would get to see Geralt.

His grades remained very good. He was put to learning the sword two days a week, practice with his daggers three days, and the sixth day help teach the little kids. His height and reputation intimidated most small children, but he knew what it was like to be towered over and yelled at, so instead he knelt or crouched as he helped them, and didn’t yell. Eventually the kids, ten to fifteen years old usually, began to be eager when he walked over and asked cheerfully, “Who’s ready to stab?”

He woke up one night to a dead goat in middle of his room, its blood smeared and pooled all over the floor. He scowled; Geralt’s kills had smelled worse. So he went back to sleep, and in the morning asked one of the university servants to help him move the goat to the kennels as dog-feed, and find some noble souls willing to help him mop his room. Since he was a favorite with the servants (especially the women), it was all done very quickly, and the mistress of the chambermaids informed him that Valdo and two of his friends had been caught with bloody boots and clothes in the night, so they were confined to their rooms for a week. Julian shrugged, thanked her, and went to class.

He left a chamber pot of offal under Valdo’s bed and was never caught or even suspected. Except by Valdo.

Summer arrived. Most students, including Valdo, left. Unfortunately, so did most of Julian’s friends. He didn’t really mind, except on nights when he wrote a new song in a fever of excitement, and in the morning realized he had no one to share with. And he lost interest in sex and kissing, though he flirted still. He earned money in the town by being a serving boy a his favorite tavern, and he liked that quite a bit, especially since he was occasionally “convinced” to sing a few songs in between serving folks. The tavern gained a reputation for gaiety and just in general being a fun place to be. Julian liked that.

The last weeks of summer closed in, and school started again. Julian went back to classes with a heavy heart; he had liked working and singing. But then, one night before the week off to celebrate the equinox, he remembered that Geralt was coming soon.

And suddenly he was so excited he could barely sleep.

The first night of the holiday, he sauntered through the markets, grinning at all the lovely things for sale, looking for something to give his Witcher. He wanted Geralt to remember him, and come back next year, as well.

Finally, he found a ring with what the jeweler insisted was a fox-head engraved into it, with silver vines inlaid all around. The fox looked more like a wolf, to Julian; and that was why he bought it. A ring, a ring for Geralt to put on his pinky or a chain or even attach to his clothing or armor; surely that wasn’t too presumptuous? And rings were small enough to keep secret, in case he needed to keep up a reputation.

Julian visited the tavern around midnight, and saw that the shadowy corner was occupied by someone with long white hair and yellow eyes.

Taro, the barman, noted Julian’s gaze, and raised an eyebrow as he pushed a tankard across the bar to him. “He’s been there an hour,” Taro said softly.

“Well, fuck,” Julian murmured. “Is he staying here?”

Taro gave Julian a look like he was crazy. “Yes, but… why do you—oh. That’s right. Be careful, Julian.”

He laughed, emboldened by the fact that Geralt had waited for him. “What’s he going to do? Eat me? He’s much more civil than you think, Taro.” And before the bartender could retort, Julian trotted over to Geralt, grinning as the Witcher’s eyes snapped up to him, and his face relaxed.

“Heard you’ve been here a while,” Julian said by way of greeting.

“Not long,” Geralt grunted. “I won’t be staying long, either.”

Julian’s grin faltered, but then he strengthened it again and tapped his tankard against Geralt’s. “Then let’s make the most of your stay.”

~

By the end of break, Julian knew: he was deeply in love. And he had a suspicion that, despite his grumpiness and general pushing-Julian-away, Geralt liked him back. At least a little.

Geralt wore the ring on a thin braided chain around his neck. Julian loved that. He loved everything about Geralt. They spent a couple days hiking together in the woods, and making love in novel places, and telling each other what had happened over the course of the year. At the end of those two days, Julian loved every scar on Geralt’s body, not just because they were reminders of his resilience, but because they all had stories. Even boring stories were good. Geralt was not a poet, or a great speaker, but Julian found himself hanging on every word like a lovesick child. Twenty-one years old, and he couldn’t control the way he brightened when Geralt was near, the way he talked a little softer around him, the way he smiled and laughed more easily (as if it had ever been hard before).

Everyone knew, of course. Julian wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings. Valdo, who had not done anything direly terrible that merited suspension, confronted Julian in the cafeteria, loudly, about his affair with a monster Witcher.

Eager eyes turned on them, and voices hushed. Julian, about to lie and say he had no idea what Valdo was talking about, felt himself begin to blush. And then… he became angry. Because who was Valdo to insult a great man like Geralt? Who was this _child_ to tell Julian that his love was stupid, foolish, and unrequited?

Valdo’s sadistic grin faltered.

“Bravo, Valdo,” Julian began with poisonous sweetness. “Well done. Well done for finally figuring out what everyone else has known from the start. Although, you’re wrong about one small thing. He’s not a monster. He’s a greater man than you will ever _hope_ to be. He’s braver than you, and kinder, and he definitely had a bigger cock.” Snorts and muffled laughter throughout the cafeteria, as Valdo turned red. It was a sore point for him that he was smaller than average. Julian continued, “And why do you even care? Could it be you’re jealous? After all this time chasing women, you’ve decided you want a man?”

Julian had meant to imply that Valdo was jealous of Julian, for seducing a Witcher. But from the way Valdo paled, and recoiled, Julian realized he’d taken it the opposite way.

“I’ll report you for harassment!” Valdo barked, starting to shake.

Julian snorted. “Harassment? Over this? You idiot, there is an entire room full of people,” he swept his arm out, indicating the full cafeteria, “Who can say with absolute certainty that _you_ were trying to harass _me_. Grow up, Valdo.”

And with that, Julian turned on his heel and walked out.

Geralt left that night, but in the darkened stables behind the tavern, Julian kissed him goodbye and tried not to melt at the sweet return. Geralt pulled down his collar and gave him a magnificent hickey, so intense that Julian ended up mewling and rutting against him urgently, hands roaming and desperate. But then Geralt pulled away, and he was definitely smirking as he asked, “Think of me tonight?”

“Every night until you get your skinny ass back here,” Julian snapped, scowling.

Geralt chuckled. He had never done that before. But he kissed Julian again, softly, and whispered, “Next year, Julian.”

“Next year,” Julian breathed.


	3. Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually won't be able to update next sunday alksdhgapiedkl I am so sorry

On Julian’s twenty-fifth birthday, he and his friends got so drunk that they all received individual reprimands from the dean the next day, and missed a full day of classes because of their hangovers. They all decided it was worth it.

Julian had been disappointed that Geralt had left before his birthday, but before he’d left at the end of equinox break, he’d given Julian a thick pocket-notebook full of drawings, writing, and pressed plants.

“Everything I know,” he’d murmured, a little self-consciously. “Since you said there was a terrible lack of... specialized herbalism books in the university library.”

Julian had thrown his arms around Geralt’s neck and kissed him fiercely, then cried a little because it was so _thoughtful_ , and Geralt was not the kind of man to be writing down every lick of knowledge he had just because a friend had complained about a poorly-stocked library.

“I love you,” Julian had whispered.

Geralt had gone very still and tense, before relaxing and murmuring, “Alright.”

That was as close as Julian was going to get, and he didn’t mind at all.

So the day he laid in bed, slowly drinking water and trying to keep his oil lamp dim, he looked through the book again, touching each page and flower gently, breathing in the smells of dust, plant, ink, and paper. He couldn’t read it in this state, his head hurt too much; but he had started reading it the day after Geralt left, and it was amazingly clear, precise, and firm. Like Geralt. Julian snuggled the book and breathed the scent of it deeply, relaxing finally and slipping into sleep.

The next day, he made up his work easily, though his friends were still blurry. Nowadays, he’d been set up to teach a special group of students a special kind of herbalism: poisons and antidotes. And with Geralt’s book, Julian became an even better teacher.

These students, many younger than him, looked upon him with awe as he told them frankly about how to make garlic into a drug that would thin the blood and make a victim bleed out faster, and how to render belladonna so that it was untraceable, and how to poison someone slowly so that their death seemed natural. Some things, he learned from the few books in the library; some things, he knew by testing on invasive animals; some, he recalled from his childhood. But many came from Geralt’s book.

One student, barely sixteen, raised her hand one day and asked Julian, “Where did you learn all this?”

Julian smiled. “Books,” he answered. “Testing of my own. Herbalists in various villages along the road here when I was younger than you. And one of my best friends is a traveler; he taught me more than I realized, until I needed the knowledge. And he gave me a book with everything he knows in it. So you see, kids,” he continued, leaning over to brace his hands on his desk and smile at his students, “Never, _ever_ leave any avenue unconsidered. You can always learn something from someone, even if it’s just to not trust that person or their information. I’m sure you all know how to cross-reference in a book. Do that in life, too. Check stories. Check facts. Keep your own story straight, neat, and as simple as possible—but never believe that anyone else’s story is the same. Even the stupidest chicken can and will attack under the right conditions. Find those conditions out, and use them to your advantage. Everything is a tool, every move in life is a manipulation; these poisons and antidotes, they are your tools. Use them wisely. And Watch. Every. Road.” He held their eyes for those last words, watching them take that all in and understand it. He smiled, pleased with them, when they nodded. “Good! Now, let me tell you about how to use poppies and powdered griffin bones—Sara will teach you how to get the bones, of course...”

His new duties as a teacher, of both the fighting arts and poison-making, filled him with a sense of purpose that no other job ever had. But it was still… lacking. He still missed something.

He remembered what it was when Bardic Final Exams came: the winter exams to prove who would be worthy of spring graduation, and thus the best courts, and who would be held back until summer. He remembered because, while he was usually singing anyway—under his breath when he trotted to classes, loudly and sloppily when drunk, joyfully at festivals, alone in his room—it was the singing in front of a crowd that filled him with a giddiness no drink or drug could match.

Students about to graduate were watched closely up until the Exams. There were competitions in markets in town for small groups at a time; the prizes were invariably small, but always proudly displayed in rooms and on the winner’s person. Julian had always watched these competitions wistfully, wishing he were allowed to compete, because he _knew_ he was better than these others. But it was his turn, this year.

He wondered if there was something wrong, the first time he was brought up on a stage in front of a crowd of curious market-goers, and whoops and shouts of “Hey-hey, Witcher’s Boy!” “Get ‘em, Juli!” “High hopes!” greeted him. He grinned at the crowd, blushing and telling himself it was just the cold, cleared his throat, and began the song he had prepared.

Surely someone had stacked the crowd. There was lots of applause when he was done, and more shouting, and when he stepped down, three laundresses and four young apprentices wriggled through the crowd to hug him or pound his shoulders and back. He couldn’t help laughing, because singing for a crowd had been intoxicating. He almost missed Bel’s performance.

Less applause for Bel, but still strong. Julian whistled and clapped and shouted encouragement, and Bel grinned at him when he stepped off the stage.

It was almost strange, how no one got as much praise as Julian, despite his being the least technically sound. He’d sung for a tavern, a pub, a marketplace, not a court or panel of judges. He was the only consistent appreciation for his yearmates, and this confused him greatly.

The second one, all the students had to stand with their backs to the crowds, on the ground, and sing as loud as they could. A couple of Julian’s yearmates cracked, and Bel coughed; Julian winced in sympathy.

Then he was shooed up in front of the crowd, facing a wall, and took a deep breath to steady himself. The song he chose for this was loud, but beautiful, not rousing, like the first test had been. He’d picked it in the hopes that he would be less favored.

There was an absolute silence when he finished, breathing a bit harder than normal. It had been one he had written, back in his first years and reworked over and over; unrequited love, lingering in the shadow of one who could never turn and see you in the light. Memories of fifteen-year-old Julian’s passionate despair over Geralt made twenty-five-year-old Julian cringe a little, but he was rather pleased with how haunting the melody had turned out.

He waited with bated breath to be told he could turn around.

The sudden cheers and whoops made him jump, and he spun without thinking, bewildered. People he didn’t even recognize were cheering him. He grinned, and stood up straighter, and he didn’t know it but his unfeigned, surprised delight made his enemies grudgingly decide he must be at least a bit of an okay fellow.

The third test, the one he _knew_ he was going to fail, was standing behind a plate of glass that he could see through, but the audience could not, and completely improvise a song with no instruments and no plan. It was a test to see how the students could read a crowd. Julian was very, very nervous.

He did fail that one, on several technicalities; his tune wandered, his lyrics didn’t fit any proper rhyme scheme, his tone didn’t fit the subject matter, and many other things. But he gauged the crowd perfectly, and so he had one point out of ten.

His yearmates seemed distracted in their studies in the time up to the Bardic Exams; Julian was not. He had convinced himself he was going to be a summer graduate, and so he focused on his students, and his own study-work. He read Geralt’s book and wrote songs and went out drinking with friends and shook his head when townsfolk told him that he’d take first place. He already knew first place would go to Valdo. The teachers and professors had all been very sure of that.

The good thing about Valdo taking first was that he stopped his one-sided war against Julian. He was busy “perfecting his talents”, and he didn’t have time to do more than snipe at Julian, who replied coolly and in such a way that no one knew it was an insult until fifteen minutes later.

The day before the Bardic Exams, Julian’s students on herbalism just… disappeared. He asked the head of his department, puzzled and a little upset; he had so much left to tell them. But the head just looking at him with narrowed eyes and asked sharply, “Don’t you have preparations to take care of?”

“Yes, but Karolina especially was having trouble with—”

“I’m very busy, Pankratz. Go away.”

Julian left, puzzled, worried, feeling sick. Had the students already been hired out as child assassins? Or had they been transferred? He just wasn’t sure. They had been good kids.

His students in the fighting arts were glad to see him, at least, and he smiled and set them to sparring against each other so he could see if they had gotten into bad habits while he was busy with the little tests. None of them had. When the bell ran for the end of class, he told them all, “Well done, my little scorpions! Paul, your hand is bleeding, go to the infirmary.”

“But I can still move it!” Paul whined, though he was trying not to.

“No buts,” Julian replied firmly. “You need your hands in good condition for practice. Shall I escort you?”

Paul shook his head.

As the children filed past him, they each touched his arm or hand, and many of them said, “Luck, sir.” He had to blink back tears as he smiled at them all. Touching another bard with the intention of giving them your luck was a very old tradition, and he wondered how many of his yearmates were getting luck from twenty-odd youngsters.

He had a free hour. He spent it in the library, reading Geralt’s book and getting enraptured in the variety of uses for types of wild mustard. Apparently it was a flavoring, a healing herb, _and_ a poison. Amazing, all the uses you could get out of a single kind of plant. Geralt had done a brief line about the flavors, described the scents vividly, glued some pressed specimens to the side of the pages, and then used arrows to point to the different parts, and the various uses. The following pages expanded on those uses. Julian ran his fingertips lightly over the edges of the pages, reading so avidly that when the bell rang, he almost fell off the sofa he’d been lounging on.

Someone snorted. He looked up, and saw Bel sitting in an armchair across from him. He couldn’t help an automatic smile; he smiled at everyone, after all, and Bel was his friend. “Hey!” Julian whispered, sitting up and closing his book. “Didn’t you have a class?”

Bel shrugged. “Felt sick,” he whispered back. “Told the teacher I was going to the infirmary. It’s quieter here, though.”

Julian frowned worriedly. “You do look a bit peaky,” he murmured, and stood up to cross the space between them and press his hand to Bel’s forehead, making Bel grin and swat at his arm lightly. “What? You don’t have a fever… Do you still feel sick?”

Bel nodded. “Nerves, I think,” he replied, and swallowed hard. “Juli?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you scared?”

Julian thought about it. Then he replied honestly. “Fucking witless.”

Bel smiled again, relieved. “Walk with me to class?”

“Absolutely. Let me drop off my book in my room and we’ll be fashionably late.”

Bel snickered and Julian grinned.

It was a quiet walk. Julian tried to help Bel think of other things, but it didn’t work. He just got paler and paler, and his eyes glazed, and he started shivering. Julian frowned. After he put his book away, he told Bel firmly, “Something’s wrong, and it’s not nerves. Come on, let’s get you to the infirmary. Maybe all you need is a posset, but you never know until you ask.”

Bel scowled, but didn’t object. Julian bit his lip, and felt Bel’s forehead again. Cold, clammy, and not… right. Goosebumps rippled up Julian’s skin, but he hid his alarm behind plain concern, and started walking Bel to the infirmary.

By the time they got there, Bel was staggering, and Julian had to half-carry him with his arm around Julian’s neck. Classes were still on, but a few people passed them by, looking at Bel in confusion or fear. Julian didn’t blame them. Bel looked hellish, and Julian’s gut was so tight with fear that he felt like he was going to either faint or throw up.

The headnurse looked up when Julian shoved the door open clumsily, dragging his friend, and her eyes widened. “Get him to a bed, I’ll fetch the Healer,” she ordered. Julian nodded, thanking his strengthening exercises, and hauled Bel to a bed, lowering him on to it gently. Bel’s breathing was laboring, now, and he looked dazed and barely aware.

“Hey. Hey, Bel.” Julian waved his hand in front of Bel’s face. His eyes barely moved. “Bel!”

The Healer arrived and shoved Julian out of the way. Nurses came carrying herbs, preparation materials, a basin… Julian backpedaled until he hit the wall, staring in horror. He knew those herbs from Geralt’s book.

But who would want to poison _Bel_?

One of the nurses noticed Julian, and said, “Pankratz, if you’re going to stare, please move away from here.”

Julian nodded, and hastily got out of the way, moving to an empty corner and watching, shivering and hugging himself, as the Healer and nurses got to work.

They were too late, though. Bel was gone before the Healer could finish mixing the antidote. He coughed up some blood, and then his eyes fluttered closed, and he stopped breathing.

Julian covered his mouth with his hands to hold in a horrified sob, as the nurses and Healer started talking about autopsy.

~

The whole university was in shock.

Throat-seize, mild curses, and disease were all known and watched for. Death-curses, though—those had not been used on university grounds in hundreds of years.

Julian was called in to give testimony while spelled to tell the truth. His story didn’t change, because he had nothing to hide: Bel had come to the library, Julian had walked with him, and when he noticed Bel getting sicker, he took him to the infirmary. No, he hadn’t given Bel any unusual gifts. No, no one had approached him and spoken ill of Bel. No, he didn’t know anything about why or how or who. He started crying at some point, but the spell forced him to speak instead of sob.

When he was allowed to go, he went right to his room and stayed there. It was dinner time. Julian wasn’t hungry.

Midnight came. Julian couldn’t sleep.

In the morning, Julian only got up out of habit. He was in a bit of a daze. A bit? No. He was sick with grief. Bel had been his best friend. Other students avoided him. The teachers gave him worried looks. Julian, always singing or humming or laughing, was absolutely silent all the way to the cafeteria, and all through a very subdued breakfast. Julian and Bel’s group gathered around him like a flock of lost ducklings. Julian may have been the energy, the cheer, the clever jokes, but Bel had been solid, dependable, and sensible. His ballads had never been grand, sweeping epics, but they had had heart and strength. And now, instead of Bel’s grinning face sitting across from Julian, there was an empty space on the bench, and when he thought of his friend, he saw a pale, still form on a bed, with blood dribbling from his mouth.

Julian only ate because it was expected, and when he finished his porridge, he just sat on the bench and stared at his empty bowl.

Rustles, as the other students stood; Raoul and Garvey grabbed Julian’s arms and dragged him to his feet. The dean had entered, and stood at the front of the cafeteria. He looked even older than he had two months ago, when he had reprimanded Julian and his friends.

“I’d like to quell the rumors quickly,” the dean said clearly. “Bardic student Belton Gryphon has died. The cause was magical in origin and left very little trace. The school magicians are going over it now.” The dean’s gaze swept over the room, and seemed to linger on Julian for half a second longer. “If you have any information about who sent this curse or why, bring it to me or the head of the guards _immediately_. That is all. Finish your breakfasts. Exams shall be pushed back until Belton’s family comes to claim his body.”

The dean left. People sat again, whispering fearfully. Julian sat because he didn’t know what else to do. His friends all looked at him, and he looked back, feeling as lost as they looked.

“What now?” Raoul asked.

“I… I guess we practice some more,” Steza said, halfheartedly. “He… he would want us to put our all into the Exams, right? Right, Julian?”

Julian nodded, because that seemed the appropriate action.

Those of them who would’ve been taking the Exams that day all went to their rooms, because when Raoul asked Julian, he’d broken his silence with a quiet, “I need to sleep.” Everyone else had decided staying in their rooms was a good idea, too. Except the few of them still in classes; they had to run.

Julian locked himself in his room, grabbed Geralt’s book, and read the section on mustard again, over and over, until the words and drawings and pressed plants started to blur and he began to weep again. Unlike last night, these tears brought sleep, and he slept several hours.

When he rose again, he was… settled. Bel was dead. He’d watched him die. But Bel had been more than a bloodied corpse. He had been Julian’s best, deepest friend. And there were better ways to remember him than lingering on his murder.

Funny how one doesn’t realize how important somebody else is until that somebody is taken away forever.

He ate lunch mechanically, still silent. His friends, again, were also quiet. He finished and left without another word, and was on his way to the library when a nurse grabbed his arm.

“Come to the infirmary, Pankratz,” she said, her face grim. “The Healer wants to talk to you.”

Julian nodded and followed her, thinking that at least crying in front of the Healer was better than crying in the library.

Bel’s body was gone and the sheets had been changed. Well, of course, that just made sense. But Julian still shivered as they passed the beds, heading for the Healer’s examination rooms.

The Healer was a tired old man who wore exclusively black, to better hide stains and because he was rather chubby and it was said black helped slim the figure. He was also completely hairless except for the false eyelashes he wore, to look less frightening. Something about a shaving spell gone wrong when he was younger. But his fleshy face was set and his sleeves were pushed up when the nurse pushed Julian into the examination room.

“Up on the table, Julian,” the Healer ordered. He was the only one of the faculty who always used first names. “I need to examine you.”

“Why?” Julian asked. His throat was so dry and sore from weeping that his voice was a croak.

“Backlash,” the Healer said grimly. “Up. And take off your shirt.”

Julian did as he was told, and waited as the Healer placed his hands on Julian’s shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. This had happened before, with various illnesses; but Julian usually didn’t feel the magic sweeping his body, and the Healer didn’t usually frown like that.

After a distressingly long time, the Healer grimaced and let go, backing away a step. “Definitely backlash,” he diagnosed shortly. “How do you feel physically, Julian? Only physically.”

“Tired,” Julian said. “My head hurts, but I… I cried a lot. Throat hurts, too.” He looked down at his hands, and frowned to see that the tips of his fingers were blueish, and his skin was very red. What did that remind him of? “My hands are cold,” he noted, surprised. “I… _all_ of me is cold.”

The Healer swore. If Julian hadn’t been so tired and grief-stricken, he would have been delighted. “Nurse Shep!” the Healer snapped, and the nurse who had followed in snapped to attention, “Get that useless head magician in here immediately, we have backlash and reaction here. Julian.” The Healer turned to the student, who was quite bewildered at this point. “Julian, I’m going to do some tests for your reflexes while we wait. Alright? Good.”

The easiest were the ones where the Healer tapped him with a little hammer. The hardest were following the movements of his finger without turning his head. His eyes were already hurting and blurred from crying, why did he have to force them to work more?

Another nurse came while the Healer was listening to his lungs, bringing a potion. Julian drank it, and felt a little clearer—clear enough to realize that the blurriness of his eyes _wasn’t_ from crying.

“Um,” he said, blinking hard.

The magician who had truth-spelled Julian yesterday arrived, looking distressed behind his enormous beard. He was short and stocky, of Dwarvish blood, but his magic was just as good if not better than human as far as anyone could tell. “What do you need, Zera?” he asked the Healer, already pushing up his sleeves and approaching Julian.

“He’s caught backlash and he’s having a reaction,” the Healer replied shortly, stepping out of the magician’s way. “A _strong_ reaction.”

A meaningful look passed between the two magic-users. Julian wanted to demand what that meant, but he was still not quite thinking straight. The magician grabbed his hands and muttered a spell—

Julian yelped and tried to jerk away, as skitters of lightning shot up his arms and spread throughout his body. The magician and Healer looked alarmed, but the magician kept muttering, and the lightning-pain continued to scurry through Julian’s body, stabbing every muscle and organ with the precision of an assassin, making him jerk and squeak. But finally, the lightning flowed back out of him and into the magician, who turned to the Healer and said, “It’s not backlash. The spell was meant for _him_. Belton was the one who caught backlash, probably because of their bond.”

Julian suddenly felt even colder. So it _was_ his fault. He _had_ killed his best friend. But why had he not been hit so hard? Why had it slid off him? Did it matter? It was his fault. Bel would be alive if not for Julian.

There was really only one person who would buy a death-spell that powerful, who could even afford a spell like that. But Julian could not accuse Valdo without evidence. And he didn’t really want to. Because now, instead of plain grief and bewilderment, he knew. He knew it was his fault.

He buried his face in his hands, as the guilt tore at him like hungry wolves. Actually, wolves would be less painful. Because at least he would be dead at the end. His fault. His fault. It ran in circles in his head, Bel’s smile fading into stillness. His fault. His fault. His fault.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, look at me right now!”

The sound of his full name shocked him into looking up, though tears refracted the world in a horribly confusing way. The Healer had grabbed his wrists and was scowling straight into his face.

“Don’t you dare give in,” the Healer snapped. “That’s how you let the spell in, by feeling guilty. Fight it, you fool!”

“But it’s my fault,” he whispered through numb lips. “It’s my fault, you said, he got backlash from me...”

The Healer let go of one wrist and slapped him, hard, jerking his head to the side. Julian gasped at the pain, but it didn’t really shock him much. His brothers had done worse.

“Who’s going to tell that Witcher if you die, hmm? Who’s going to stop him going on a rampage and killing half the university?!”

That got Julian’s attention, and he straightened, outraged under the crushing guilt. “He wouldn’t,” he retorted, his voice stronger. “Why would you think he’d do that?! He’d never do that!”

“Well, stay alive for him anyway,” the Healer snapped, shaking Julian hard. “We’ll take you up to the spell-ward, and you will stay there until the spell fades.”

“Exams—”

“Can fucking wait. Nurse Shep, send a message to Dean Elcrath. Julian was the target. That should shift the focus of the investigation.”

Nurse Shep nodded and ran. The magician ran his hand through his hair and said to Julian, “We’ll have to put you to sleep. I don’t think any spells should be worked on you; Zera, what potions do you have?”

“Plenty. I’ll mix one up now. Come, Julian.”

Julian remembered his shirt, then let the magic-wielders escort him to the second floor of the infirmary, where students struck by spells gone wrong or ill-made potions were kept. These were actual rooms, not just beds; Julian was led to one near the far end of the hall and left there with the magician to watch him as the Healer went and brewed up a sleeping-potion.

After a silence where Julian stared at his hands, exhausted and confused and still so guilty he physically hurt, the magician cleared his throat and asked gruffly, “Do you know your bloodlines, boy?”

Boy. Twenty-five wasn’t “boy”. But then again, sorcerers always lived long, long lives. “My parents are both from watered-down royalty,” he answered softly. “Father was always proud to count distant kings in the family tree. Mother was annoyed. She felt like she should have married a prince. But she was just a younger daughter of a duchess. So—”

“Any non-humans in your family?”

Julian’s hands curled into fists, and he replied forcefully, “ _No_. We’re a human family, always have been, always will be.”

“Why don’t you look like your parents?”

Julian blinked, and looked up. “Huh?” he said.

The magician was looking at him strangely. “I’ve met the duke and duchess of Pankratz,” he said. “You don’t look like either of them. They both have black hair, and yours is brown. Brown eyes, but yours are blue. And your build is not at all like either of them. Are you sure you’re not adopted?”

Julian stared at him dumbly. Adopted? That… that would explain why everyone hated him, but… adopted? With an unknown background?

No. _No_.

“I’m not adopted,” he said.

The magician gave him a look that said he didn’t believe Julian, but he crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t say anything else.

Luckily, the Healer came back soon after, made Julian drink a potion, and then gave him infirmary clothes and told him to put them on and sleep. Julian struggled upright as the two other men left, and slowly put on the thin, undyed linen, before crawling into bed and waiting for sleep.

Guilt over Bel and fear over his background warred in his head until the potion took effect, and he dropped into dreamless sleep.

~

Being an invalid was _boring_.

Well, technically, he wasn’t an invalid. But the Healer and nurses kept plying him with potions and pills and creams until he felt like screaming. His friends weren’t allowed to visit and he wasn’t allowed to sing, but after his first attempt to escape the ward, he’d been allowed his lute and composing supplies. Magicians came and went, studying him and then leaving with worried looks and muttered notes.

He still felt sick with guilt, but the medicines had things the Healer called “mood stabilizers” in them, that eased the guilt and made him more alert—and also angry. But there was a different potion that made him sluggish and unable to feel much of anything, and they rotated potions so he never got too used to any of them. They fed him broth, bread, and milk, and sometimes fruit, and by the end of the first week he was ready to kill someone for some aspargus.

The dean visited him twice, to talk to him. The first time, he’d been too muzzy from drugs to be much help. The second time, he was alert, and irritated, but remembered to be respectful.

The dean wanted to talk about his childhood, though, before he came to Oxenfurt, and Julian didn’t want to talk about that at all. Finally, after half an hour of questions that made him angry and uncomfortable, Julian threw up his hands and snarled, “Why does it _matter_?! They’re not going to want my body if I die, they don’t care that I’ve been here ten years, and _I_ sure as hell don’t care about _them_! It’s useless thinking they’ll be any help!”

There was silence for a moment. Then the dean sighed and replied heavily, “We sent a letter to your parents. They replied with a letter that said they wouldn’t mind if we buried you in an irrigation ditch as long as we never spoke to them again. They did not address the fact that I also asked about your bloodlines. We must look at all possible complications, Pankratz.”

Julian shouldn’t have felt hurt by that. His family hated him. That was fact. That was why he’d run away.

But hearing someone else confirm it… his throat tightened, and he felt fifteen and scared again. Scared of assassins, of midnight attacks, of a companion who could easily kill or abandon him. And this time there was no escape from that fear. There was no kindness to save and help him.

His family hated him so much that they didn’t even want to tell anyone if he was a half-blood or not.

“Okay,” he said softly.

“What’s your earliest memory, Pankratz?”

He thought about it, hard, through the daze of the past few weeks. Earliest memory… “Singing. Someone singing to me, in the dark. Nothing else, just that.” He didn’t even remember when that was. Maybe he had had a nurse who liked him.

The dean nodded. “Well, I’ll try another letter,” he said with a sigh, standing with a wince. “Belton’s funeral is tomorrow, his brothers have arrived to take his body home. I’ve arranged with Zera; you’re allowed to attend. Please don’t let the Gryphons see you. Someone told them it was your fault and they threatened to gut you.”

Guilt stabbed through Julian’s heart. They were right, it was his fault… but he wasn’t sure he wanted to die by being gutted. So he nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Rest, Pankratz. You’ll be fine.”

He was escorted by nurses to the funeral. It was quiet, and the speeches by Bel’s friends and brothers were all characterized by grief-cracked voices and snot-filled noses. No one was surprised that Julian wasn’t allowed to make a speech.

Julian didn’t even notice Valdo until he was standing next to him. Valdo actually looked… nervous. Regretful. Sympathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Julian nodded. He’d started crying again at some point. He didn’t even want to lift his arm and wipe away his tears. “Thanks,” he whispered back, his voice cracking too.

Valdo stayed next to him for the rest of the funeral. Finally, Bel’s coffin was carried away, and the crowd began to break up. Julian wanted to fall to his knees and weep; the guilt was tearing him apart. But his knees stayed locked, and his sobs stuck in his chest.

Valdo suddenly hugged him with one arm, repeated “I’m sorry,” and hurried away. Julian didn’t even care. He just let the nurses shoo him back to the infirmary.

Three days later, the Healer announced that Julian was no longer sick in body. The head magician confirmed that the death-spell had faded and was now gone. So Julian was allowed to put on his uniform again and go back to classes.

The other students avoided him. He didn’t care. In fact, he was glad. This way, if anyone tried to curse him again, it wouldn’t affect anyone. It hurt a little when even Steza pulled away, but really, it was to keep everyone safe.

He didn’t go down to the tavern anymore, either. What if something happened down there? With the spell gone, he still felt guilt, and fear; but he didn’t wish himself dead. In fact he most assuredly did _not_ want to die. That would give the curse-sender a modicum of pleasure, if he did away with himself, and no one who took a chance on murdering innocents should be allowed that pleasure.

Valdo came forward and admitted that he had bought an evil-eye pendant several weeks before the Exams, to protect against any curses sent his way, and it had been destroyed by… something powerful, the day that Julian was attacked. Other favorites said that they had narrowly avoided death that day, too. It all tallied up, until everyone was sure: someone had been trying to kill off promising students.

The only fatality was the spell rebounding off of Julian. So it was, actually, still his fault.

The Exams had been moved to the first day of spring, and the process of judging was going to be more rushed than usual, to get students ready to be chosen for courts around the Continent. Julian felt untouched by the rush. He wasn’t going to be chosen. He knew that in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t going to be chosen to graduate.

That didn’t mean he gave in to ennui and didn’t practice. He was determined to do his best, regardless of where he placed. It was just easier to take if he knew he wouldn’t win.

Bardic Exams were… actually a little disappointing. There were several small tests based on: technical skills; writing; composing; written exams and presentations on instruments, musical theory, and bardic history; life skills like the economics of travel; and the most important skill a bard could learn, reading the room.

The big tests, the actual singing and playing, were the ones that made Julian want to scream from nerves. He waited in line, listening to his fellows display their prowess, feeling sicker and sicker with the knowledge that he would never be that good. There were only ten judges, for fuck’s sake! And Julian was a crowd-pleaser, he sang for audiences, not ten mummies who had first seen him as a travel-worn child…

Wait.

No one had said he couldn’t sing as if there _was_ a crowd.

Almost immediately, he changed his idea of what song he would sing. He had wanted to do one of his “perfect” songs, ones that he had written purely to hit all the checkpoints; but that wouldn’t rouse an audience. That wouldn’t make people happy. So what if they failed him? So he’d be a summer graduate. That didn’t matter. What mattered was learning if he could make himself imagine an audience that wouldn’t care about perfection.

It was his turn. He stepped up in front of the judges, and smiled.

“What’s your song, Student Pankratz?” the head judge asked.

“The Lady Or The Lute,” Jaskier replied. “I wrote it myself.”

Frowns and mutters from both the judges and the other students. Then Julian heard a gasp, as someone recognized the title, and he grinned.

“You may begin,” the head judge said.

Julian began.

It was actually quite easy to pretend he was singing for a tavern instead of ten judges. All he had to do was hold to the laughter he heard from the other students, as he sang impishly of a drunken bard who dithered between sleeping with his beautiful wife or playing his lute until he passed out on the inn floor. It was only a little autobiographical. He sang of all the sweet times the fictional bard had had, and always left until last whether the “lovely lady” was either the lute or his wife. He could see the judges beginning to smile, too, except three who looked absolutely outraged at his audacity.

Finally, the drunken bard fell asleep before he could choose, and the innkeeper had him shoved in a corner, “Til mornin’ light breaks through his fog of beer, and he remembers who exactly he should call ‘my dear’.”

He bowed with a flourish, as his fellow students whooped and roared with laughter, clapping. Most of the judges clapped too, grudgingly.

“You may leave the stage, Student Julian,” the head judge called, pitching his voice to be heard over the others. Julian bowed again, more respectfully, and skipped off the stage, grinning as his yearmates enfolded him to tell him how great the song was and how he’d probably failed in the most spectacular way possible.

“That was the plan,” he told them all cheerfully, and there was more laughter, before they calmed down enough to listen to the next student.

No one else was as impudent as Julian, and he was fairly sure his utter ruin was what gave the students who followed him such ease and passion. He congratulated each one quietly as they came off the stage, and received grins from everyone.

Finally, all twenty students had finished. The judges ordered them all to leave, and they were free for the day.

Many students talked of going to town to celebrate, and a few decided to just steal some wine from the cellar and have parties in their rooms. Julian smiled and let them all talk excitedly, and when he judged the time right, he slipped away, and went to his room.

He curled up in bed and read Geralt’s book, soothed and fascinated as always. He was almost done with it, but he lingered over every description and note. Where would he be come autumn? Maybe he could ask for a teaching position until he next saw Geralt, and convinced him to take Julian with him.

Bel would have told him to get going in the summer. Leave a message with Taro and go find a court to entertain. Geralt would find him again, if he wanted to.

Julian swallowed around a lump in his throat. Bel had never liked Geralt (understandable, nobody did), but he had been far more suspicious than anyone, even after four years of Geralt never hurting anybody, unless you counted the bruises from his grip on Julian’s thighs and wrists. Which nobody did. Julian was the idiot who kept waltzing back into Geralt’s grip, it wasn’t the Witcher’s fault that superhuman strength damaged delicate human flesh.

But Bel had been… protective. Had he loved Julian? Hard to say. Julian had never paid much attention, because Bel was his friend and he was too happy to have that relationship with him. He might have…

Someone hammered on his door, and he jumped, almost dropping his book.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz!” Valdo Marx shouted outside, “Meet me in the main courtyard in half an hour! I have a bone to pick with you!”

Julian gaped at the door. What the fuck?

In the end, he did go to the main courtyard. A crowd had gathered, mostly students of all ages, but a few teachers as well. They parted for Julian, and he walked to the open center, where Valdo stood with his hands on his hips. Julian frowned at the strange mix of anger and satisfaction on Valdo’s face, but all he said was, “What do you want, Marx?”

“I have a problem with your Exam,” Valdo replied. “Specifically, the song you chose.”

Julian blinked at him. “What?”

“It was an insult!” Valdo exclaimed with a flourish of his arms. “You were insulting me, specifically!”

“Why, because you’d rather kiss your lute than your betrothed?” Julian jabbed back, utterly baffled. “It was based on _me_ , you dumb fuck.”

“More insults!” Valdo sneered. “You use that terrible tavern-boy voice of yours to get away with insulting bards in general and me in particular, then resort to further slander for no reason! I demand satisfaction, Pankratz!”

Julian snorted. “Marx, you idiot, you _know_ I’m stronger than you,” he said frankly. “And your swordsmanship is shit. Everyone knows that, you can’t hide your weaknesses in practice.”

Valdo grinned. “That’s not what I meant, though.” He held up two vials of blue liquid. “Siren scale liquor,” he said. “We’ll have a contest, right here, right now. The person who draws the most applause wins.”

Murmurs of delicious scandal ran through the crowd. Julian hesitated. Siren scale liquor made a singer almost as good as said sirens; but they always had side effects and kickbacks. He was just as likely to vomit blood until he died as sing so well the entire campus clapped. And he still remembered the death-spell...

But looking at Valdo’s mocking smile, Julian’s resolve hardened, and he grabbed one vial. “Who first?” he demanded.

“After you, Julian,” Valdo said sweetly.

Julian sneered, popped the cork, and downed the whole vial.

When he lowered the vial, he took a deep breath, ready to sing—and instead he coughed, and a little yellow butterfly escaped him.

“What?” he whispered.

Suddenly there was a rush of pain in his stomach, so painful he would’ve screamed, except he was coughing too hard, falling to his knees—and the butterflies kept coming, a veritable explosion with each cough, and people were screaming, and Valdo was actually trying to get closer, but the billows of butterflies surrounded Jaskier, flying in an ever-shifting, ever-growing globe, blocking the others.

Fabric ripped. Jaskier looked at his arms in horror; spines had erupted, from his shoulders down to his elbows, pale and dull like bone. The pain in his stomach became nothing compared to the pain in his head; his hands went to his temples as he screamed, and felt horns there. His hands dropped, he was crying and wanted to cover his mouth to stem the flood of butterflies—but his fingers were claws, the color of sun-bleached bone, and his skin was covered in thick hair the same color as the stuff on his chest.

Monster blood, he thought, so terrified he was calm. I have monster blood. No wonder my family hated me.

And then, with one last surge of pain in his entire body, it all melted away, spines, horns, claws, fur, and he was just Julian again. The butterflies flew away, and Julian slumped, before falling on his side and passing out.

~

He awoke in the infirmary.

It was night. He felt it, in the stillness of the air and the quiet of the world. But the shadows were… light. Everything was bathed in silver instead of dark, and he realized that his monster blood was still awake.

He gave a little cough. A tiny moth escaped him, but nothing else. He swallowed hard, and slowly raised his hands.

They were normal, human hands. But shimmering traceries of searing blue showed outlines; heavy claws, thicker fingers, stronger wrists. They were waiting. The knowledge came clearly, and he knew it was true. They were waiting to come back out.

Julian wasn’t going to stay here and let that happen again.

Slowly, carefully, he sat up. The infirmary was empty; even the nurse had gone to bed. They had dressed him in the thin clothing they kept for the sick; no rips. His arms felt stiff. When he looked down at his left arm, more blue traces showed where the spines had been. With the faintest rustle, he got out of the bed, and halted to listen. Murmuring voices… but they were far away. His bit his lip, then gasped, one hand flying to his mouth; his tooth had sunk easily through his skin. Damn it. But just as he looked around for something to stem the blood, he felt a sharp sting, and when he poked the spot again, there was no trace of the rip.

Well.

It had been getting harder and harder to sneak through the halls; there was just too much of him these days. He was taller than any of his yearmates, even if just by a few inches, and all that swordplay had built muscle. But he had never lost his ability to be quiet, almost silent, and to make no noise against the ground. And he could hear when voices were coming, and slipped without a noise into dark corners until he was in the clear.

There weren’t many people awake, though. Some professors, the guards; Julian was able to sneak to the dormitories and find his room without alerting anyone. The door opened silently, and he shut it behind him as he entered with a sigh of relief.

Now he moved without sneaking. He stripped off the infirmary clothes and put on his graduation outfit, buckling his daggers on too, then began packing his bookbag with the items of greatest value. The sentimental things could be left with no great sorrow; it wasn’t like he could buy a night at an inn with his favorite rock. He took all his self-composed music, and threw it in the tiny fireplace, burning every last page. Maybe it was a bit petty, but he didn’t want anyone finding his work. Then he shoved Geralt’s book into his doublet, slung on his lute and bag, grabbed his cloak, and snuck out again.

It was just as easy to leave Oxenfurt, and the town around it, as it had been to leave his family home. He stopped just outside the gate, and looked back at what had become a place of light, love, friendship, and fun. Had it been home? He didn’t know. It sure as hell couldn’t be home anymore.

“My name is Jaskier,” he whispered, pulled up his hood, and hurried down the road.

~

Another thing to come with his monster-blood; his stamina had improved. He walked all through the night, and then all through the next day, and all he needed in the way of food was a swiftly-snatched apple that no one saw. He traded a gold ring for a bag of pierogi, and ate them on the road, already missing the generous flavorings the University cook had used. Oh, well. At least there was salt.

His jaw ached sharply, and when he jumped and muttered “Ow!” and reached into his mouth gingerly, he found that a molar had actually _fallen out of his jaw_.

Carefully, he brought the molar out, gaping at it. It was one of the ones that had been giving him trouble, with a dark hole in it. Gingerly, he reached back into his mouth and touched the open spot in his line of molars.

A new tooth was already coming in, barely peeking over the flesh of his gums.

Shaking, Jaskier tucked the fallen tooth in his belt pouch, and kept walking, eating gingerly. Thankfully, no other teeth fell out.

He reached another village, and bought a night at the inn. He didn’t eat much dinner. But when he laid down, he dropped immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Not quite dreamless, actually. When he woke to dawn light shining through the shutters, he realized he could remember a loving voice crooning in a language he didn’t recognize, stroking his hair with claws the color of bone.

“My baby, my baby, sweet baby,” the voice had murmured, warm and enfolding. “They won’t find us here, my baby. We’re safe here, in the deep deep woods. Yes, baby Buttercup, yes.”

And then there was just the room around him, and tears in his eyes that he blinked away furiously.

No one had every been that kind and loving towards him when he was young. No one.

He got up, and dressed, and went downstairs.

A sleepy serving girl gave him a bowl of porridge. He ate it automatically, trying to think of his next step. He could hear the other people in the inn stirring: the cook making breakfast, the barman cursing as he struggled with a barrel of mead, the other boarders moving around. He could leave soon, and be on his way… where? Where could he go? He definitely couldn’t return to the home of his youth, and he didn’t really know how to travel. Maybe, once he was suitably far from Oxenfurt, he could settle down as the bard at some town in need of a trained minstrel, or maybe a tutor.

Almost at once, he realized he could never do that. He could never settle down in one place. Not until he found out what monster he was. He had to know—so he couldn’t hurt anyone. He looked down at his hands. The blue traces glinted, reminding him of his waiting claws.

Would Geralt know?

A wave of fear and loneliness and an ache in his chest at the mere thought of Geralt’s presence threatened to bring him to tears. Of course Geralt would know. Would he consent to killing Jaskier quickly? Would he tell Jaskier what he was before he died? Would he have any mercy for a former lover?

Jaskier thought of their last kiss, months ago. It had been sweet, kind. Geralt had promised to come back. Hadn’t he? Maybe he hadn’t. It was months ago and Jaskier’s memory was shaky right now. One day at a time, that was the way to do this. One day at a time.

He paid for his meal and left, continuing away from Oxenfurt.

The days were warm, the nights chilly; walking for long stretches was no trouble. Jaskier stole, and sold his few valuables, but he still ran out of money, and was forced to do something he hadn’t done in years.

He asked an innkeeper if he could pay for a night indoors with music.

The innkeeper looked at him suspiciously. Jaskier tried not to sweat, as he reasoned sweetly, “Just think, sir; I know plenty of good, rousing songs that will bring in more customers, and perhaps they’ll even sing along and buy more drink from you. Just one night.”

The innkeeper sighed heavily. “Aye, might as well. Our last minstrel up and died from drink. Maybe you’ll know some new songs.”

“Oh, I promise I will! Thank you very much, sir!”

The innkeeper had one of his sons lead Jaskier up to the stool by the fire when the old minstrel had sat, and under all those suspicious stares, Jaskier smiled as charmingly as he knew how, and asked, “Any requests?”

“Yah, that you get your skinny behind back out on the road,” one man snapped.

Jaskier blinked, but his smile didn’t waver. His nerves were worse now. “You haven’t even heard—” he began, but he was interrupted by another man.

“We don’t need to! Yer not gonna be as good as Felix, so ye might as well piss off!”

“Give him a chance!” retorted the serving girl, her cheeks red and her scowl fierce. “Ye were always complaining about Felix not knowing new songs, but _he’s_ new,” she pointed at Jaskier, “So he might know somethin’!”

“She’s right,” piped up a third man, and there was a chorus of mumbled “ayes” and “that’s true”. “He’s got an Oxenfurt accent, too.”

“Do ye know the Ways To Kill A Demon song?” the serving girl asked Jaskier.

Jaskier felt his nerves melt away, and he grinned and sat up straighter. “Yes! I learned it in the cradle, but my home is far from here. Variations are inevitable.” He cleared his throat, found the notes, and began to play and sing.

After the first verse, he was completely immersed in the music, and the inn was beginning to sing along. There were some words that were different, but that didn’t seem to be a problem, judging by the laughter of the patrons. He had been right; ale and wine and cider flowed freely, as throats and mouths demanded lubrication. Jaskier had to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd, leading them smoothly into the next song, about three wheelwright’s apprentices who had a fight over who was best. This one, the lyrics were absolutely the same, but he saw surprised pleasure on many faces, and knew, somehow, that it was because he was better than the old minstrel.

It was wonderful. He stood at one point, swaying with the music, singing about a foolish man whose wife knew he was tumbling the maid, because she had caught them multiple times, but the man kept thinking she had forgotten, until the maid had a baby and the wife declared it hers, since it was her husband’s child. That one was a comedy, and had people roaring with laughter. With absolutely no hiccups, Jaskier slid easily from the end of that into a song about a king’s three songs attempting to fetch a cure for their father and having all sorts of silly misadventures. It was a happier version of the more gruesome tale, because there were children in the audience, many of whom were delighted by the funny man with a lute and a good voice.

When midnight came and the innkeeper shooed everyone out, Jaskier was exhausted but elated. What a night! Absolutely the most fun he’d had since the last talent show! He smiled as the maid approached, carrying a mug. “Hello! Do you think that was worth it?” he asked her cheerfully.

“More’n worth it,” she said with great satisfaction. “Here, milk with honey. For ye throat.”

“Oh, thank you!” Jaskier accepted the mug and toasted her. “To your health, fair maiden!”

She giggled, covering her mouth with her hands as he drank, then said, “Papa says ye get breakfast as well as a doss. We’re clean out of wine and we’ve got a mornin’ crew who’d love to hear you.”

Jaskier hesitated. He could stay here. He could make a life here, just be the bard of the house. Hide here for a long time…

But he didn’t know what he was. And he didn’t know what would bring it out again.

So he shook his head in regret. “Thank you, dear, and thanks to your father as well, but I must move on in the morning.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get annoyed when I get stale.”

She snorted. “Oh, those bastards! They complain about everythin’. But really, ye could do worse than here.” The look she turned on him was… hopeful, and shy. Very familiar. Other tavern wenches had given Jaskier that look.

But he remembered Geralt, his gentle kiss, his promise not to forget, and Jaskier couldn’t bear to stay where people would look at him like that. So he shook his head again.

“You’re right about that. I’ve been through some terrible shitholes in my time.” He made a face and she giggled. “But truly, I don’t think I should stay. The hospitality here is exceptional, and I will absolutely point others in your direction, but just one night is enough.”

Her face fell. “Ye mean it,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Sorry about that,” he replied, just as softly, and he was truly regretful. But he couldn’t stay. “Thank you, though. Thank you so much.”


	4. Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to change So Many Tags I'm so sorry
> 
> Also this chapter certainly got weird

Jaskier was very tired on the day he realized he had just turned thirty.

Five years. Five years of wandering. He’d tried to settle at a few courts and castles, but even though he had been respected, even liked, he couldn’t stop. Being forced to flee every time his sexual exploits were discovered didn’t help.

He couldn’t stop moving. Every time he started to relax, he remembered he was a monster, and he couldn’t let anyone know. It had been hard, though. Very hard. Especially in the beginning.

But it had been five years and seven months since he had left Oxenfurt without graduating. He was getting used to it. He was also used to seeing blue traces on other people: magical beings, many of them, bewitched to look human. Several part-elves, the blue shimmers thick at the tips of their ears. Magicians, sorcerers, and Healers were so wrapped in blue that it looked like intricately-woven wire around their hands and faces.

Jaskier’s monster-blood had been impossible to control, in the beginning. He would be jumped on lonely roads by bandits or monsters or such, and while he was quick with his daggers, there usually came a point where he was wounded—and then his doublet would rip as spines emerged down his arms and back, his head would ache sharply as horns grew, and his hands would be too thick with sharp claws to hold weapons. Not that he needed them at that point.

The first time he tore out a troll’s throat with his teeth, he had cried for hours, washing his hands and mouth frantically in a stream until his skin was raw.

But it was easier, now, especially since he had carefully made vents in his clothes for the spines, and his head had stopped aching so fiercely when the horns came in. Now all he needed to do to bring the monster-blood down was take three deep breaths and remember what human Jaskier looked like.

On his thirtieth birthday, Jaskier left the road, following his now extremely sensitive ears, to find a river. He followed it all the way to the edge of the steep cliff that the road twisted away from, and sat down beside the water, and stared at it.

Glints of gold and white and silver in the sun on the rumbling, tumbling surface of the river… He found himself recalling Geralt, as he often did on his birthday. Where was he now? Was he still alive? Did he ever think back on those four years of stopping in at Oxenfurt to visit one student in particular? And if he did, did he ever miss that student?

Jaskier never named his past self if he could help it.

He leaned back on his hands and turned his face up, closing his eyes to bask in the sun despite the harsh nip in the air. Animals stirred in the grasses and trees; insects buzzed. One good thing about being a monster, was that bugs never bit him anymore. Another was, of course, the heightened senses, though he still wasn’t good at paying attention to those senses. But here, right now, he breathed deeply and treasured the scent of sun-warmed earth and plant, the flowers around him, the sharp, clean scent of the river. He listened with appreciation to the rumbling of the waterfall, the whispers of deer through dead leaves, the chattering of squirrels and birds. He tasted the last remnants of that truly excellent bread he’d bought three days ago that he’d already finished off. If only this moment would last forever…

Something sniffed his hair intently. He smiled and opened his eyes. The doe started, but did not stop sniffing him. Her fawn nibbled his sleeve, then spat it out. Then it climbed into his lap and curled up, neat despite its gangly legs.

“Don’t do this,” Jaskier whispered.

The doe finished deciding he was safe, ducked her head to make sure of her baby, and then returned to the forest that stopped a little ways away from the edge of the cliff. Jaskier sighed and listened more carefully. It was absolutely baffling why animals thought he was safe. He had shared pup-guarding duty with wolves and otters; rabbits had led him right to their dens and he’d fed their tiny, down-soft babies from his own hands; and deer especially liked him. This was not the first time he had guarded a fawn.

Luckily, it seemed the doe was a fidgety mama; she came back just as the sun reached to the horizon, and took her fawn home, with a nuzzle to Jaskier’s cheek. He stood, stretched, drank some water, and kept walking.

At night, the air was even colder, and he wrapped his cloak around himself tightly. Monster blood didn’t keep him warm, after all. There might even be snow. He looked up at the sky, bright silver with his night vision, the stars and moon only slightly dimmer than the sun (which he had learned he was able to look at with no pain). No, no clouds. Maybe not snow. But it was definitely cold, up here in the hills. He would really like to reach the plains by the next day.

He smelled old metal and cooking meat. His nostrils flared, and he stopped, breathing slowly and deeply.

Old metal, dirty leather, sweaty linen and wool. Blood. Human-smelling, under the blood. The cooking meat was boar, and under it was the mouthwatering aroma of seasoned soup.

He hesitated. Dare he follow the scent? Dare he approach these people, and ask for supper?

They had no animals, no horses or dogs. That was strange. Most packs of humans had horses, and a large majority had dogs. Jaskier frowned, and took an even deeper breath, peering through the trees.

No firelight. Only the silver light-dark that was the world at night. He scanned his surroundings closely. The wind was brisk, he might be picking up scent from who-knew-how-far; but this might also be a trap. He’d fallen for this one before and had to gut the creature who’d tried to eat him.

He started walking again, resolutely turning away from the tantalizing smells of food and company. Better to pass up a chancy meal than have to use his claws again.

He hadn’t gotten far when he heard the rustles of human-shaped bodies in the brush, and smelled their metal-leather-wool-sweat-blood scent. He glanced to the side; two men in mismatched armor followed his course at a safe distance. Scouts? He pretended he hadn’t noticed, though he did walk a little faster.

Jaskier knew the moment he passed through a sorcerer’s alarm spell.

It was colder than the air, and searched him pore by pore, but it was too thin to truly get a read on him as he walked briskly. He did not stop. He did not give away that he had noticed that a sorcerer was near. He did not even acknowledge that the scouts in the woods had stopped.

He walked. And walked. And walked. He began to feel sleepy, and his feet began to hurt, and when he rubbed his eyes, he realized he was walking down the same stretch of road over and over.

Someone was looping him.

He looked behind him. Just a few feet away was the sorcerer’s border. He turned, and walked back towards it. He did not loop this time, and soon passed through and was out.

He turned again, and frowned at the road downwards. If he concentrated, he could see the faint blue line across the road. He followed it with his eyes to the right, up and up into the impassable, sheer stone cliffs. Then he looked to the left. It went over the stones at the edge of the wide grassy verge, and when he walked over to peer down, the steep, rocky decline from the road also had the line.

Well, he didn’t want to go up. So he might as well go down.

He knelt and peered closer. This part of the hill was a little too dangerous, ever for him. He stood, and began slowly walking back up the hill. The scouts were back, watching him. He ignored them, looking over the hill. Finally, he found a section that looked fairly climbable. Sitting down on the edge of the hill, he removed his lute and pack and took off his boots. Tying the boots together by the laces, he shoved them in his pack, slung it and his lute on his back again, and took three deep breaths.

His hands changed, fingers becoming claws, palms becoming pads, wrists growing thicker and stronger. He hadn’t realized at first, but in this state, his toes became claws too, and he grew a spur on his heel. A very small spur, but big enough leave a mark. And his feet changed shape, becoming more like a cat’s. It was all very useful for climbing.

Carefully, he slipped over the edge, turned to face the hill, and began to climb down.

It was slow going. The dirt was still moist and loose from rain a couple days ago, and the rocks shifted under his claws. He had to really dig in to get a good grip, and then be careful dislodging his claws so he didn’t also dislodge clumps of dirt. He kept looking down, to be sure he was getting closer to the ground, and he really was, and for that, he was grateful.

Until a man in dark red armor with a drawn sword stepped out of trees at the bottom, looking straight at Jaskier.

Jaskier froze for a moment, nostrils flaring at the scent of _Witcher_. He’d passed old Witcher campsites a few times, and there had always lingered a scent that drew him in, though they had never been Geralt’s scent. Would this one let him explain? Or would he run Jaskier through as soon as he was level?

The dirt gave under Jaskier’s right hand, and he had to quickly change his grip. Craning his neck, he saw two human heads hanging over the edge, watching him. He could see the wide eyes and gaping mouths in the dark-light; surprised, and too scared to follow. Good. However, he couldn’t go back up. Not good.

Preferring the Witcher to the humans—at least it would be a quick death—Jaskier sighed and got on with it, inching closer and closer to the bottom.

It seemed like hours had passed before he was near solid ground. With three deep breaths, he brought back his human form—and promptly lost his hold on the hill, twisting quickly so he’d fall on his arms and not his lute. It hurt. A lot.

“Ow,” he muttered, and lay there for a moment, catching his breath, before slowly slithering to level ground and climbing shakily to his feet.

The Witcher was staring at him, surprised. The sword was still up, he was still dangerous, but at least he was hesitating. Jaskier brushed himself off as best he could, and said weakly, “Hello.”

“I know you,” the Witcher said. He looked younger than Geralt, though with Witchers it was hard to tell. There were also some horrendous scars on his face. Red flickers of light, like dried blood, surrounded his hands and face, where blue magic was on other creatures; they were very prominent too, as if he had more than most magic-users. “You’re that bard Geralt told us about.”

Jaskier straightened, suddenly excited and forgetting about the sword. “Geralt? You know Geralt?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, yes.” The sword lowered a fraction, and the Witcher frowned quizzically. “We all thought you were dead. Well. He didn’t.”

“Of course he didn’t, the fucker.” Jaskier realized his tone was quite fond, and probably not good for a first impression. “Um. My name’s Jaskier. Yours?”

“Eskel,” the Witcher said, and actually put his sword away. “That’s a pretty tough climb. Why’d you do it?”

“Oh.” Jaskier waved his hand vaguely, noticing how Eskel’s sharp gaze followed it. “There’s a sorcerer down that path who doesn’t want to be seen, so I decided to go around.” He turned, knowing that was dangerous, and indeed saw the blue light of the shield curving up the road. He shrugged and turned back to Eskel. “Are you hunting something or just passing through?” he asked.

“Just passing,” Eskel replied. “A sorcerer, you say?”

“Yes. I noticed I was walking in a loop, so I decided to just go back up to the start of the loop, and sure enough it stopped.” He shrugged, as Eskel blinked. “I’ve run into it a few times. It makes them feel superior if you go too long. If you catch it and leave, they usually don’t care.”

“Huh.” Eskel scratched his head with one hand and put the other on his hip. “Direct little bugger, aren’t you?”

Jaskier frowned in confusion. “Well, yes. You don’t get anywhere interesting by beating around the bush,” he pointed out.

“Why aren’t you scared of me?” Eskel asked.

Jaskier huffed and put his hands on his hips. “Because you know Geralt,” he retorted, “And if he told you about me, then he must trust you a lot. Since he trusts you, I suppose I should, as well.”

Eskel looked very taken aback by this. And then he smiled, much wider than Geralt ever had. “Thanks,” he said. It was Jaskier’s turn to be startled. Geralt only said thank you grudgingly, unless it was to Jaskier. Jaskier had assumed it was a Witcher thing. “So. A sorcerer. Do you know how wide the shield is?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Judging by the curve, I’d say the diameter is several miles,” he replied. “Unless it’s irregular, but that would be a horribly dirty trick, and anyway, all the magic-wielders _I’ve_ met have been fusspots about symmetry and equal forces and so on. Unless it’s a square with slight-curved edges, or oblong,” he mused, turning back to the shield line. “Another dirty trick, but more in keeping with sorcerers.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Eskel said wearily. “The creature could be anywhere in there and the only way to find out the shape is literally go all the way around.”

“What are you hunting?” Jaskier asked impulsively, ignoring the fact that Eskel had lied earlier.

“Not sure. Those who escape it are always too terrified to be very coherent, if they speak at all.” Eskel rubbed his chin, frowning. “Could be a new creature,” he murmured. “Created by the sorcerer.”

Jaskier felt quite flattered that Eskel thought aloud around a person he’d only just met. “Is there any way I can help?” Jaskier asked. “I could talk to some people. I’m fairly good at getting people to talk to me.” He’d sometimes made extra coin, spying and gaining trust. He hated doing it, it felt like cheating, somehow, but he was still good at it.

Eskel frowned suddenly. “I wouldn’t want you to get caught up in Witcher business,” he said.

Jaskier snorted. “Oh, please. I spent two months traveling with Geralt when I was fifteen, getting “caught up” in his business the whole way. _And_ I’ve been traveling alone for years. I can slither out with minimal damage to my poor weak human self.”

Eskel made a face, then said grudgingly, “Alright, then. I’ll take you to the village edge. You go in and talk, see if you can get someone to open up to you. Any information is important at this point.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jaskier hesitated, then asked, “Is it very far? I’ve been walking several hours and I’d very much like to lie down until full sun. Noon, preferably.”

A shrug, and Eskel said, “Not far. But I need to meditate a little anyway. My campsite is over this way.”

Jaskier eagerly followed him, not noticing that, without his boots, his own footfalls were as silent as Eskel’s. Eskel noticed, but said nothing.

Eskel had a horse who stamped and snorted when Jaskier entered the clearing, but when Eskel murmured soothingly in its ear, it stopped fidgeting. Jaskier only paused long enough to remove his lute and his pack before falling on a patch of grass, pulling his cloak around himself, propping his head on said pack, and falling deeply asleep.

~

He woke to the horse gently lipping his horns.

He tensed, but the horse just moved on to his cheek, and then gripped his shoulder with its teeth and shook him awake.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered, and the horse let go. “I’m awake.”

“Good.” Eskel walked over and sat next to Jaskier, looking down at him gravely. “Are you going to explain your current physical state?”

Jaskier stared up at him. Carefully, he raised his head, and looked at his curled hands. Claws. Turning his head, he saw his spines were tenting his cloak along his arm. And his feet were clawed and shaped again, too.

“I...” His voice died in his throat, as he realized he _couldn’t_ explain. So he took three deep breaths, and it all pulled in; but this time, his nails stayed sharp and hard and the color of bone, and he could feel that the horns were down to nubs, but not all the way gone. “I’m a part-blood,” he said weakly, staring at Eskel’s knee. “It… woke up, about five and a half years ago.”

“So that’s why you disappeared.”

Jaskier nodded, still afraid to raise his head.

After a very tense silence, Eskel said, “Well, until we find out what monster you are, I doubt it matters.”

Jaskier’s head snapped up, and he gaped at Eskel. “That’s it?” he demanded. “Just… it just doesn’t matter?! Or am I going to end up headless the minute I turn my back on you?!”

Eskel stood, and brushed dirt off his bum. “Geralt trusts you,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Jaskier, about to argue, decided against it. As long as Eskel didn’t feel like killing him, for whatever strange, unknowable, Witcher-related reason, he was safe. So he got up, and brushed himself off, and started as the horse butted his chest and lipped his collar.

“Scorpion likes you, too,” Eskel said.

“Do all Witchers name their horses after insects?” Jaskier asked, stroking Scorpion and scratching its ears. The horse rumbled and set its chin on his shoulder.

“Depends.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “You’re as bad as Geralt,” he muttered, and kissed Scorpion’s muzzle quickly before bending to grab his things. “So! This village. Where is it?”

Eskel pointed in the direction Jaskier would’ve been heading if he’d been allowed to follow the road. “About a mile,” he answered. “It’s big enough for a pub, not big enough for an inn.”

“Hmm. Perhaps they’ll welcome a weary traveler and allow him a drink of ale.”

“Don’t drink the ale. It tastes like piss. Don’t ask me how I know that.”

Jaskier grinned. He could already tell that he was going to like Eskel. “Do they have _anything_ drinkable?” he asked.

Eskel shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching up in the same way Geralt’s did. Maybe they were brothers. Come to think of it, hadn’t Geralt said of his fellow Witchers that they were his brothers (and occasionally sisters)? “Water and goat’s milk,” he answered blandly.

Jaskier shuddered. “Milk? No thanks. I’ll stick to water. Will you be following, or will you stay here?”

“I’ll stay here.”

“Alright.” Jaskier took his boots out of his pack and put them on again, glad to see that his feet and nails were human again. Feeling his skull, he noticed that the horn-bumps were gone. “I’ll be back by midnight,” he promised, and set off down the road towards the village.

The village—town, rather—was set in an expanse of wheat fields, and the river he had seen plunging over the cliff yesterday afternoon had carved a path near it, powering a mill that he could just see over the tall log palisade surrounding the place. There were people out and about, he could hear them; greeting neighbors, caring for animals, minding children. Jaskier could tell when he’d been spotted, because a group of children who had been playing by the open gate froze. He raised his hand in greeting, though he was still too far to hear them or be heard, and one or two waved back. He dropped his hand, and the group scampered in through the gate.

A man strode out the gate, followed by two women in trousers and tunics with swords. The man had a heavy axe on his shoulder—shoulders that were certainly capable of maintaining the weight of the axe. In fact, he was so muscular it was almost comical. The women were also muscular, but it was the muscle of warriors, not work. So their guards were of all genders? Interesting, and also a very good idea.

“Hello!” Jaskier called cheerfully when he was in speaking distance. The man slid his axe off his shoulder to rest in both hands, and Jaskier immediately stopped walking. He and the women looked very suspicious of Jaskier, who kept his posture loose and a friendly smile on his face.

“Who’re you?” the man demanded.

“Jaskier the bard, at your service.” Jaskier bowed, but not so deeply that it looked mocking. He grinned as the women looked startled and pleased, the younger one beginning to blush, and the man frowned thoughtfully.

“Jaskier?” he repeated. “Oh. Yes, we’ve heard of you. You’ve slept with more lasses than can be counted.”

“My reputation precedes me! I assure you, the number is less than you think.” Which was true. He certainly enjoyed sex, and it was a nice way to pass the time (or get information), but he didn’t sleep around as much as he did as a student. “And really, I have no intention of sleeping with anyone. I just need a drink and a night indoors, that’s all.”

The man nodded grimly. “Aye, you don’t want to be out here in the dark. There’s a Witcher out here,” he said portentously, “And only the gods know what them bastards do to the unwary.”

Jaskier’s jaw tightened, but he smiled again and said sweetly, “Ah, sir, I’ve traveled with a Witcher before. He was quite a gentleman. But I don’t doubt the nights are dangerous, if there’s a Witcher around.”

The man looked at him sharply, then shook his head. “They never said you were crazy,” he muttered, then sighed. “Alright, come on in. Wellis won’t mind a new face.” He turned and walked back through the gate, shouldering his axe. Jaskier followed, and the women fell in step with him.

“You traveled with one?” the younger woman asked in a low voice. “What was he like?”

Jaskier really couldn’t help the affection in his smile and voice. “Quiet. Grumpy. Kind. Saved my life multiple times,” he answered her. “He only took half of the agreed-upon payment, which was sweet of him, since jobs were scarce. I felt bad for him.”

Both women stared at him, aghast. “He didn’t take it all?” the elder asked.

“No. I suspect he was going through one of his fits of honorable conduct or whatever when he refused payment.” Jaskier shrugged and smiled at their shock. “What? Can’t Witchers be good people, too?”

“You really are crazy,” the younger one breathed, marveling.

“Oh hush, Jen,” the elder one snapped. “ _You’re_ the one who was sighing over the one who took the job to clean out whatever was eating Dutton’s cows.”

Jen blushed furiously, looking quite ashamed. Jaskier patted her arm in sympathy. “They do tend to be attractive,” he sighed.

“He wasn’t attractive, he had huge scars down one side of his face—”

“As if Bennil is any better with his burns!” Jen shot back in a hiss.

“Scars are a sign of resilience, whatever their cause,” Jaskier said soothingly, as both women reached for their swords, glaring at each other. They’d all three stopped in the road, just inside the gate. “I’m sure both of them were handsome in their own ways.”

“Bennil has a nicer voice,” the elder woman sniffed.

“The Witcher had a kinder smile,” Jen retorted.

Jaskier sighed. His friends had been like this too, fighting over their chosen lasses. “Ladies, this is an interesting conversation, but could one of you perhaps point me towards a place to buy a drink? I’m parched.”

“I’ll walk with him,” Jen said quickly, then turned to Jaskier. “This way. Our tavern’s pretty small but the food is good.”

No mention of the drinks, but that was fine. Jaskier smiled and thanked her and followed her down a dusty main street to a squat building that wafted the smell of baking bread and simmering stew at him, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in at least eighteen hours. His stomach growled loudly, and Jen grinned.

The inside of the tavern was well-lit, with paper windows that let in the bright midday sun and a small fire on the hearth to keep off the chill. Jaskier looked around alertly; clean, quiet, with three men in rough clothes at a table near the wall. The woman at the bar saw Jaskier and sighed heavily.

“First a Witcher, now a disgraced noble,” she muttered, reaching for a mug.

“Stop it, Nelly,” Jen snapped crossly. “He’s a bard, not a noble.”

Nelly blinked, and noticed the lute on Jaskier’s back, and the daggers on his hips. He smiled politely, and introduced himself. “Hello. I’m Jaskier. Do you have a half-pint?”

“Uh… aye.” Nelly put away the mug and got out a smaller one. “What’ll it be?”

“Just water, if you have it. I’m a bit too parched for anything else.”

Nelly nodded, walked over to the door to the kitchen, and yelled, “Hi, Wellis! Get us some fresh water, lad!”

“Yes, mother!” a voice called, and Nelly returned to Jaskier and Jen, who had both seated themselves at the bar.

“What brings you here?” Nelly asked Jaskier, curious but wary.

“Passing through,” Jaskier answered, bracing his arms on the bar. “Inspiration was pretty thin on the ground where I last stayed.”

“What counts as inspiration?” Jen asked, genuinely curious.

Jaskier smiled dreamily. “Oh, everything, really. Magnificent views. Beautiful women. Handsome men. Heroic deeds. I even wrote a song about a Witcher, once.” He laughed at the memory of Geralt’s incredulity when he’d played the song about the wraiths. “He wasn’t pleased, but then, he’s not exactly the most musically inclined.”

The three men on the other side of the tavern, Jen, Nelly, and a young man carrying a pitcher who had just walked through the door, all stared at him in shock. He beamed at them all. “I don’t know about the other Witchers, but the one I traveled with was an absolute dear. Prickly, and rude, but not too bad.”

“Have you always been insane?” Nelly asked frankly.

“It seemed to come upon me at university,” Jaskier answered cheerfully. His stomach growled, then, very loudly, and he looked down at it in shock as the tension broke, and Nelly and Jen laughed, while the men stifled chuckles with their drinks and Wellis snickered as he sidled up to his mother.

“I’ll get you some stew, and bread,” Nelly said, as Wellis filled his mug with water. “And then...”

“Tell us about the Witcher,” Jen demanded.

Jaskier felt himself light up like he hadn’t in years. “Of course! But… food first?” He looked around with such a plaintive expression that Nelly laughed again.

“Yes, yes, just a moment,” she chuckled, and left through the door into what was presumably the kitchen.

“Will you sing for us, too?” asked Wellis, leaning on the bar. He looked very intrigued, and not just by Jaskier’s promise of song.

“Yes, absolutely!” Jaskier took up the mug and drank the whole thing in four gulps, setting it down with a grateful sigh. His stomach rumbled again. “Oh, hush, ungrateful organ.”

Wellis and Jen giggled.

People started to drift slowly into the tavern, most eyeing Jaskier. He pretended not to notice, and started telling his stories about Geralt to Wellis and Jen with much emphatic gesturing. When the food arrived, he had to slow down to eat, and took a few minutes to wax poetic about Mistress Nelly’s fine cooking, making her blush and giggle.

“The _Witcher_ ,” Jen urged, poking his shoulder.

“I was _getting_ there,” Jaskier replied, rolling his eyes.

He finished his food, and Jen urged him to come sit at a table, so everyone could hear him. He laughed and protested, but did not fight her tugging. He was all too happy to share adventures, and answer questions, and gracefully turn the subject when people started poking at his relationship to the Witcher. He ended up sharing his own traveling adventures as well, with many dramatic flourishes. He didn’t even notice the gathering dark outside.

But eventually he managed to turn the talk, and asked eagerly if there were any stories or songs the villagers could inspire him with. Some spoke up, telling him about various fights with weaker monsters, and he whipped out his parchment, quill, and ink, beginning to write it all down with his tongue poking out a little, gently encouraging his sources.

Finally, he said, “These all happened a while ago. Have you been left alone since then?”

Silence fell immediately. Jaskier felt himself dampen, smile fading, as he looked at the wary faces surrounding him. Taking a chance, he said softly, “There _is_ something.”

“We… don’t know what it is,” Jen replied softly, face pinched with fear. “It rips bulls apart like they’re nothing.”

“It destroyed my storage barn and ate my husband when he went to fight it,” said another woman quietly, clutching her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“It sheds its horns,” said a man who shook like a leaf. “I found one. Bigger than my torso, it was.”

“You didn’t tell the Witcher that,” Wellis accused.

The man turned red with shame, but said nothing else.

Quietly, softly, the villagers painted a picture of the aftermath of the creature. Two people, silent until now, whispered that they had seen it—but all they remembered was fur stained black with blood, teeth so long the monster couldn’t close its lips, claws that shone silver in the dark, and a stench so powerful they had smelled it for days afterwards. Jaskier didn’t even touch his quill, listening to them all with a twisting in his gut. Horrible, horrible… he’d forgotten how horrible it was to be human and afraid. So soft, so fragile, in a world full of monsters ready to tear the nearest human to pieces.

When silence fell, Jaskier didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure anything he said would be good enough. But he opened his mouth and said softly, “I am so sorry.” He met all their eyes, even as his own began to burn with tears. “I am so, so sorry.”

“At least you believe us,” Nelly pointed out bitterly. “The last traveler through here laughed at us.”

“The Witcher listened,” Jen retorted.

“But he hasn’t been back for days, now, has he?” Nelly shot back. “Probably either ran off or was killed.”

“I can find him.”

Everyone turned to stare at Jaskier. He swallowed hard and repeated, “I can find the Witcher. Tell him what you told me. Maybe he lost its trail. And if he’s dead, maybe he left something behind that you can use.”

Nelly snorted. Jen bit her lip. The first woman, whose husband had been eaten, protested, “What if it kills you too?”

Jaskier smiled thinly. “Then I’m not cut out to be a traveling bard. I mean it, though. I can find him.”

~

Jaskier breathed the fresh night air and waited until he was out of sight of even the most keen human eyes to breathe deeply three times and let his hands become claws, and his spines come out. Oddly enough, there seemed sudden stiffness on his body—what he imagined plate armor to feel like, except his joints had full range of motion and his clothing was no tighter. He frowned, then shrugged, then found himself stepping into Eskel’s camp.

The Witcher was on his feet, sword drawn, frowning; but the frown faded when he saw it was Jaskier. “Your scent is different,” Eskel stated.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier replied vaguely, then crouched to set his pack on the ground and fish out some folded papers. “I have notes. I’m sure you got most of this yourself, but they told me absolutely everything they could think of.” He stood and held out the papers, delicately, so his claws didn’t pierce them. Eskel put away his sword and easily accepted the pages, reading them quickly. He got to the sketchy map Jaskier had made, and frowned.

“They didn’t give _me_ a map,” he muttered, sounding miffed.

“I had to beg,” Jaskier replied uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. Strange, it felt like there was something hard and perfectly smooth on the back of his neck… “They didn’t want me coming back out here. But anyway, do you know what it is?”

“Yes.” Eskel made a face and refolded the papers. “They’re lucky it’s so young, or they’d all be dead.”

Jaskier gaped at him, stunned, then spluttered, “What?!”

“Yes. These things grow quickly, but since they can live for centuries, well...” Eskel shrugged. Then he frowned and looked at Jaskier sharply. “You aren’t going to follow me, are you?”

Jaskier actually wavered on that. Finally he sighed heavily, and said, “No. No, I won’t follow.” Then he drew himself up and added, “But you better give me the details when you come back, so I can write a song about you.”

Eskel looked surprised, then grinned. It made him look younger than he probably was. “Fair enough,” he said. “Go back to the village. Sleep. Eat. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine.” Jaskier sighed again. He really was tired and hungry. “Please don’t die.”

“I won’t.”

They parted then, Jaskier trudging back to the village, Eskel packing up his campsite and leading Scorpion away. Jaskier felt suddenly cold, and lonely; he missed having a companion. No, he missed having a _Witcher_.

He shook his head hard and focused on the road.

He reached the village again without incident. Jen and Elma, the other woman on guard duty, opened the gate for him, and he slipped in and sighed in relief when the gate closed and the bar thudded into place.

“Well?” Jen demanded.

“He knows what it is,” Jaskier reported. “He’ll be back some time tomorrow. And he promised to give me the details so I can write a song about him.”

Elma frowned. Jen grinned.

“Nelly says you can sleep at her house,” Elma informed Jaskier. “She’s got the room.”

“Oh, wonderful! A real roof to lay under! A luxury I haven’t had in _weeks_ ,” he lamented, as Wellis trotted towards them. “Thank you, ladies, for your kindness!”

Wellis led him through the sleepy village, and just as they passed the well, the younger man asked shyly, “So, eh, you been traveling long?”

“Not too long,” Jaskier answered, surprised. Then he saw the heated glances Wellis was throwing him. He thought about it. He wouldn’t really mind bedding Wellis—except he couldn’t be more than seventeen, and that didn’t seem right to Jaskier. He was a thirty-year-old monster. Wellis was just a horny teenage human.

Sex never woke the monster blood. But he was in no fit shape to do any fucking tonight; he was tired and filthy and ready to collapse on a floor somewhere and _sleep_.

So he said, “But long enough that I am, quite frankly, probably more dirt than human right now. Is there any way to get a bath hereabouts? I think I have enough coin.”

Wellis did not, apparently, take the hint that Jaskier was trying to say no without acknowledging that there was a question. He just nodded vigorously and said, “We’ve got a tub. Mother won’t mind.”

“Wonderful!” Jaskier said gaily, and tried not to meet Wellis’ desperate eyes.

Nelly rolled her eyes but accepted Jaskier’s coin and ordered Wellis to fetch water to heat on the hearth. In the meantime, she plonked a bowl of soup in front of Jaskier, and he ate it with many compliments, though he was rather unsure why she was giving him so much food. He usually got beer for dinner at inns, and scanty breakfasts that he eked out with stolen produce. Unless he was at a fine court, in which case the dinners reminded him too much of his childhood and he could barely eat anything. And when traveling, he simply foraged and stole. He couldn’t bring himself to kill an animal that trusted him, so he never had meat on the road unless it was, again, stolen.

But gods, he missed asparagus.

“Gods, lad,” Nelly said finally, exasperated perhaps by his incessant chatter, “How long has it been since you’ve had three solid meals in a row?”

“Oh, not that long,” he replied, startled. “Maybe a year?”

The shock on her face made him pause, and blink. “Is… that a long time?” he asked, nervously. Truth be told, he didn’t really miss getting three solid meals a day; two small ones and snacking through the day kept him alive, so that must be good enough. At least he’d lost weight.

“Off with your shirt,” Nelly ordered abruptly. “Let me see your ribs.”

Still bewildered, Jaskier took off his doublet and then his shirt, and looked down at himself when Nelly’s expression turned sad.

“Oh,” he said, surprised yet again. “Didn’t notice that.”

He had muscles, from years of walking and dancing and climbing and walking some more, but—he could see his ribs. And his stomach bulged a little with all the food he’d had lately, and not in a flattering way. More in a half-starved way.

“You’re not leaving here without breakfast,” Nelly said firmly.

“Um. Alright.”

Wellis had finished filling the bath by the hearth. He stood by, fidgeting, until his mother glared at him, and he ducked his head and scurried upstairs.

“Don’t sleep with my son,” Nelly said flatly. “He’s already the talk of the town.”

“I won’t,” Jaskier promised. “I’m too tired for dalliances tonight. Thank you, by the way, for letting me stay here.”

Nelly nodded. “Least we could do. Take your bath. I’ll help empty it when you’re done.”

“Thank you.”

~

Jaskier woke to watery grey sunlight and raised voices outside.

The voices weren’t near Nelly’s house. They were at the gate.

Eskel.

Jaskier scrambled up from his bed by the hearth, yanked on his clothes, and left the house, closing the door firmly behind him. Then he trotted down the road, seeing quite clearly three men blocking the partly-open gate. One was waving his arms. One had his hands on his hips. And one had his ax at the ready.

Jaskier quickened his pace, to a restrained run. He could smell them, now; the smells of angry humans, and Eskel. And a creature so foul he didn’t know why those four were still breathing.

He called out, “Hello, gentlemen!”

The three guards turned, startled. Jaskier smiled cheerfully and slowed his steps to a quick stroll. “What’s going on?” he asked, craning to see around them. “I swear people heard miles away!”

“This Witcher claims we owe him the full amount,” the man with the ax snapped. “He didn’t kill the thing when he said he would!”

“Because I didn’t have the right information,” Eskel replied irritably, nodding hello to Jaskier. “And it was sheltering in that damn sorcerer’s woods. Also, I am well within the week negotiated.”

The men seemed stumped. The one who had been waving his arms looked ashamed. Jaskier took his chances and asked, “Why is is so important to you not to pay him? Surely whatever amount you promised is worth the death of the creature killing your people and livelihoods.”

The three villagers threw him angry looks. The one with his hands on his hip sneered, “We know your feelings about Witchers, _bard_ ,” and spat at Jaskier’s feet.

Jaskier smiled cheerfully. “Yes, yes, I’m insane, I have no idea what I’m talking about, I’ve got strange notions learned at university, I’ve heard it all before, my fine fellows. But I will tell you now, no human could have killed that thing. You _tried_. So why are you stiffing the only person who could save you before your village was completely destroyed?”

The men looked torn between shame and fury. Eskel was watching Jaskier with raised eyebrows, apparently astonished. Jaskier looked each villager in the eye, no longer smiling, and asked gently, “Why are you so afraid, when all he’s done is help?”

There was a long, tense silence. Then the man with the ax lowered the weapon, took a purse off his belt, and threw it at Eskel, who caught it easily. “That’s half,” the villager said sullenly. “I’ll get the rest.”

Then he stomped away.

Jaskier stepped a little closer, then stopped when the villagers tensed. “I am sorry,” he told them, “But look on the bright side. It’s dead. That’s all you wanted. That’s all that matters.”

The one with the waving arms sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Aye,” he admitted wearily, “That’s true enough.”

The one who had spat at Jaskier still glared.

Finally, Ax Man came back, and counted coins into Eskel’s palm. Eskel tucked the money away, thanked the villagers politely, and asked if they had any special requests for disposal of the body.

“Nah,” said Arm Waver. “Let it rot. You can take the head, too.”

Eskel nodded, and left, lugging the giant shaggy beast-head as if it were no more that a sack of flour on his rope. The villagers shut the gate firmly behind him, then turned to Jaskier.

“You better pack up and leave, bard,” Hips growled.

Jaskier smiled easily. “Fair enough. Let me fetch my belongings, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Nelly was quite annoyed at his leaving before breakfast, but Jaskier just smiled and shook his head and gathered his things. “Can’t be helped, dear. I annoyed them too much. I don’t want to bring their wrath upon you, as well. Thank you though. Thank you so much.” He kissed her cheek, ruffled Wellis’ hair, gave them another coin, and left.

Two of the men had left the gate. It was only Hips now. He waited until Jaskier was level to reach up and grab his shoulder, yanking him down the two inches necessary to look him in the eye.

“Never come back,” Hips snarled.

Jaskier smiled back, as mocking and nasty as he could. “Oh, I certainly won’t, now that I see how you treat traveling businessmen,” he replied sweetly, knocked the other’s hand away easily, and left.

He deliberately turned away from the trail of blood and gore that marked Eskel’s passage. No proper goodbyes to the Witcher. That was fine. At least he’d gotten Eskel his payment.

Jaskier sighed, but kept his head up and walked. If his memory of geography wasn’t too far off, there was an actual castle and village not to far down the road. He should reach it by tomorrow morning if he didn’t stop walking.

Hoofbeats behind him. He tensed, then relaxed as he smelled Eskel and Scorpion. He looked behind him and grinned as Eskel reined Scorpion from a canter to a walk.

“Are you happy with your payment?” he asked the Witcher.

Eskel smiled back. “They over-paid me,” he replied. “But since they were going to stiff me anyway, I decided not to say anything. Here.” He leaned down and handed Jaskier some coins. Jaskier blinked, and opened his mouth, but Eskel anticipated him. “No one’s ever defended me like that. So there’s my thanks. Where are you headed?”

Jaskier shrugged, and made the money vanish into his purse. “The castle, I think. Maybe I’ll get some good beer.”

“Mind if I come with?”

Jaskier grinned up at him. “No, not at all. I’d be grateful for the company,” he replied truthfully.

Eskel was a fun companion. He got off his horse to walk beside Jaskier, and they talked a bit—mostly about Witcher business, and Eskel made a point of gently explaining that he probably wouldn’t see Geralt until winter, which was when the Witchers of the School of the Wolf always gathered at their… well, Eskel used the word “home”, but Jaskier was pretty certain he didn’t see it as such. Jaskier tried not to let his disappointment show.

“Would you like to hear about Geralt’s first hunt?” Eskel asked with a sly grin. “It involves drowners and losing a bet with our teacher.”

Jaskier would have been ashamed at how he perked up, if he had any shame when it came to Geralt. “Yes!”

So Eskel told him about how Geralt had made a bet with their teacher, Vesemir, that he could complete his first contract in three days with no injuries—and ended up taking a week, breaking his arm, and sustaining several bites. Eskel told it in such a way that, instead of being shocked that the seemingly ever-competent Geralt was once a clumsy young man, Jaskier ended up laughing so hard he almost fell over. And then when Jaskier sang a short stanza about silly young men, Eskel egged him on, until they were both caroling a ballad to the idiotic confidence of youth.

Were all Witchers this fun? Jaskier hope so. Geralt had been less fun and more fascinating, more an adventure; but Eskel was like Bel. A friend. Jaskier didn’t look too hard at that.

Jaskier, emboldened by Eskel’s kindness and good humor, swung his lute around and sang “The Lady or The Lute”, which made Eskel laugh. Then dusk was falling and they were both hungry, so they moved off the road for a quick bite of bread and dried meat, and to let Scorpion rest. The horse seemed very content to be brushed and eat as much ground coverage as it could.

Eskel set a fire and meditated. Jaskier, who wasn’t at all tired, strummed his lute softly and hummed as quietly as he could, all the lullabies he could remember. He was just finishing the last when a squirrel scurried down the tree he was leaning on and sat on his shoulder, nibbling a seed. Jaskier smiled and reached up to pet its head gently. Its ears flicked, but it touched its snout to his cheek, then ran back up the tree.

Jaskier settled more comfortably and strummed a wandering tune, looking out at open land silvery in the star- and moonlight, and felt at peace. Why? He had never felt this peaceful, not since he last saw Geralt. Last held his Witcher in his arms and kissed him softly and felt Geralt melt for him, only him.

“My lover is a quiet man,” he sang very softly, “But that doesn’t change the fact, that when he holds me in his arms, the rest of the world stands back. My lover is kind, and gentle, and warm, and I would fight anyone, an army, a swarm, just to hold him once more. My lover is a quiet man, but that isn’t all he is. My lover is the world to me, and I would kill for one more kiss.”

“Would you really?”

Jaskier jumped, and his head whipped around to stare at Eskel, who had apparently finished meditating and was looking at Jaskier thoughtfully. Jaskier blushed, and scowled.

“Yes,” he replied tartly. “I wouldn’t kill just any old person, but yes, I’d do anything for him.”

Eskel was obviously fighting a smile, and Jaskier scowled harder. “What? Is being in love with a Witcher _funny_ now?” he snapped, to hide his fear.

Eskel shook his head, then explained, “No, but it’s just a little interesting how you say that, when he said the same thing about you, about two winters after he started seeing you.”

Jaskier felt a sudden blooming of warmth in his chest, and his scowl faded. “He did?” he asked, and he couldn’t help sounding a little shy, a little eager.

Eskel nodded. “He doesn’t really talk much—well, you know that. But he started talking about you, and then suddenly _everything_ was about you. How you gave him gifts for the road, how you weren’t afraid of him, how you sang songs to praise him. He’ll never admit it, though, so don’t tell him I told you.”

Jaskier wanted even more to run into Geralt again, just to hold him and kiss him and spend more than five days telling him everything that was wonderful about him. He looked down at his lute, and wanted to ask Geralt about his life, and get answers other than grunts and evasion. He’d helped Geralt bathe once, when he was tired and filthy and his arm had just healed from being broken; he wanted to do that again. He wanted to be close to Geralt.

His eyes were burning and prickly. He blinked, hard, and a tear slid down his cheek. Well, fuck.

“Does he know I miss him?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Eskel replied. “He has the worst self-esteem I’ve ever seen.”

“Then I’ll have to tell him.”

“He’ll probably try to evade.”

“No. He doesn’t get to evade me. Not this time.”

~

Eskel and Jaskier parted ways at the castle. There were no jobs for Witchers, but there was a feast being prepared for a son’s birthday. Jaskier whipped up a few songs for dancing and entertainment, auditioned with the lord of the castle, and was hired as entertainment. He got a bath, a room of his own, and the chance to entertain. This made him very happy.

Apparently, his reputation had preceded him—the reputation for sleeping with people and being an excellent musician, that is. The evening passed in a whirlwind of performing, drinking, rejoicing at finding asparagus available to him, and flirting with everyone unapologetically. Why wouldn’t he? He was happy, and everyone here liked his performance, and truly, it was a wonderful time. He supposed the challenge to a duel was meant in anger, but he was in such a good mood that he only smiled and said, “Well, I’m a bit rusty with a sword, but I can probably give you a decent fight with a dagger.”

“No! Swords only!” the man bellowed.

Jaskier shrugged, accepted the loan of a sword from a guardsman, and disarmed his opponent in two minutes. It wasn’t really a fair fight, the man was more drunk than Jaskier, but there was spontaneous applause and cheering, and even the disarmed lord looked impressed. Jaskier smiled sheepishly.

“It’s a knack,” he replied, hefting the sword. “If it were rapiers, you’d probably win; never trained with those.”

“Oh,” the man said.

“Another song!” the lord of the castle roared, raising his ale.

Jaskier bowed to him, returned the borrowed blade, and picked up his lute again.

It was very late when everyone went to bed and servants removed the last of the food. Jaskier found that his room was not empty; two young ladies of style and wealth were glaring at each other, and when he closed the door behind him, guessing what they wanted, they both started talking at once, accusing each other of being sluts who slept with every handsome man who came by and saying that they were going to tell on each other.

“My ladies, dear ladies,” Jaskier soothed, holding out his hands. “There’s no need for anyone to tell on anyone else. I have two hands, after all.”

By the time both of them were thoroughly pleasured, they had settled their differences, and agreed not to tell. Jaskier saw them out with a kiss each, making them giggle, and when they were gone, he washed his face and cock and put on his night-clothes, then fell into bed.

He dreamed of lying beneath Geralt and laughing, not just with the ecstasy of orgasm, but from the sheer joy of being with his Witcher again.

He left that place with a fat purse and lots of praise, and it made him smile. He tried not to think of Geralt.

He wandered even more, holing up at an actual royal palace when the winter started getting too harsh even for him. The king and queen didn’t trust him, but their daughter certainly enjoyed his company on cold nights, as did several of the servants. And he taught the youngest prince how to play the lute, which delighted the boy and kept him out of trouble. Poor child. He just needed a challenge. Something that could test him. Jaskier mentioned university to the prince’s tutor, who thought about it for all of ten seconds before nodding and saying, “Yes, I will definitely bring it up with their majesties.”

Unfortunately, Jaskier got roped into escorting the prince to the nearest university—to Oxenfurt.

~

“Why are you so tense?”

Jaskier smiled at the prince and continued replacing the strings on his lute. “I’m not tense,” he lied.

“Yes you are,” the prince replied, frowning. “Why? I thought you said Oxenfurt was great.”

“It is. You’ll do quite well there. There’s such a wide variety of subjects to learn, you’ll be overwhelmed. They’ll help you sort out which ones will be most interesting or useful.” Jaskier applied himself to his task, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Why do you not want to go back, if it’s so wonderful?”

Jaskier sighed, and sat back, eyeing the prince wearily. “Because they won’t want me back,” he replied. “I’m trouble. I always was. Yes, my yearmates have probably all graduated, but the teachers will remember me, and there’s always stories. My biggest rival has had plenty of time to smear my good name. There’s no point in me expecting to be welcomed.” He smiled crookedly. “But you, bless you, you’re a child, starting fresh. You have the beginnings of education; they’ll see to it that you leave as full of knowledge as is possible for a growing person.”

The prince nodded, then opened his mouth to ask something else—

The carriage jolted to a halt, as the horses stopped and neighed in fear. There were shouts from the guards, and then shouts from other men. Jaskier lunged across the carriage, grabbed the prince, and dragged them both to the floor, shoving the boy tight against the seat and hissing, “Stay quiet!”

It sounded like that guards were winning, but he couldn’t be sure. There was quite a lot of swords clashing, and arrows crashed through the glass of the carriage windows to stick in the wood of the walls and doors, making the prince flinch and bite his mittened hand to hold in squeaks. Jaskier listened, and wondered wildly if he’d have to let his monster blood out to protect the prince. He shouldn’t—but he might have to.

With a final sharp howl of pain, the fighting stopped. The prince and Jaskier held their breath.

Then one of the guards limped around to the door and said wearily, “They’re dead. We lost some horses and two men, but the bandits are dead.”

“Are we moving on from here?” Jaskier asked as he sat up.

“Aye, sir.”

“Alright. Is there anything I can help with?”

The guard shook his head wearily. “No, sir. We’ll get the dead off the road, and keep going. We’ll be at the city by nightfall.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

The guard nodded and walked away; as the sounds of men moving already-freezing bodies off the road filtered through the broken windows, Jaskier helped the prince up. Then, because the boy was shaken and sniffling and looked like he needed it, Jaskier pulled him into a firm hug. The prince immediately broke down and started sobbing on Jaskier, clutching him tightly and huddling tight to his side. Jaskier could understand that.

Assassins, blood, a severed head at his feet…

“We’ll be fine, Jon,” he murmured, rubbing the prince’s arm soothingly. “We’ll be fine.”

And they were fine. They got to the city by nightfall, alright, and as the guards wearily explained to the city Watch, Jaskier helped the prince out of the carriage and didn’t mind as the boy clung to his hand, sniffling still. They were escorted to the university, and from there to the dean’s office. Dean Elcrath was even older now, but he smiled at Jaskier.

“Pankratz. Good to know you’re still alive. Who is this?” the dean asked, leaning forward over his desk slightly.

“Good to be alive, Dean Elcrath. This is Prince Jon; his parents will have written you. We were attacked by bandits, but luckily the guards were better fighters. He needs sleep.”

“I’m fine,” the prince insisted, but he still looked ready to cry.

“No you’re not, Jon,” Jaskier replied gently. Then he turned back to the dean. “Unfortunately, his tutor couldn’t come, but I have letters for you regarding his progress.” Jaskier pulled the letters out of his cloak’s inner pocket and held them out to the dean. “I’ll be leaving once he’s settled.”

“It’s still winter out there,” the dean protested, startled, even as he took the letters. “Pankratz, you fool, you’re staying here in the guest quarters until spring. And no sass,” he added, when Jaskier opened his mouth to retort. “We have the facilities. If it makes you feel better, we’ll have you teach a course on geography while you’re here. Fair deal?”

Jaskier sighed and nodded. “Deal, sir.”

~

As soon as spring arrived, Jaskier left. He couldn’t take this place. He couldn’t take being known and spoken to familiarly by people he barely remembered. All of his friends were graduated and gone. The teachers didn’t seem to know what to do with him. And he couldn’t stay—what if he got too comfortable, and his monster blood showed?

~

The next Witcher he ran into was Lambert, and oh, did Jaskier regret that.

Lambert was not like Geralt or Eskel. He was not gentle or kind. He was a snarky asshole, and Jaskier was sorely tempted many times to bop him over the head with his own sword.

They met on the road. Jaskier had just killed a beast that had attacked him, and was wearily wondering how to find a stream to wash off the blood, when a gruff and offended voice said, “Hey, that was _my_ kill.”

The scent of _Witcher_ made Jaskier whirl. He’d looked the Witcher up and down cautiously, then said, “You know, you’re quite welcome to claim it. I just didn’t want to get eaten.”

The Witcher had scowled… then began to grin, wickedly. “Oh. Oh, I know _you_. You’re Jaskier, Geralt’s lover-boy.”

Jaskier had blushed, then demanded, “Well if you know me, would you mind telling me who you are?”

“Lambert. Stand back so I can slice this thing’s head off. And then we need to have a talk.”

The talk had consisted of Lambert pestering Jaskier—gleefully, Jaskier thought sourly—about his relationship with Geralt. With every defensive word (it was hard not to be defensive), Lambert had just been more and more wicked.

And then he’d declared that Jaskier was too reckless to be left alone, and Lambert would have to escort him to the next stop.

“I don’t need an _escort_!” Jaskier had spluttered. But Lambert was just as stubborn as Geralt. So eventually, Jaskier gave in with bad grace.

He tried to slip away at night, but Lambert’s horse had stomped on his foot, making him yelp, and Lambert had laughed at him.

It took a day or two, but finally Jaskier gave up having a grudge against Lambert. He was just… an asshole. And if Jaskier kept track of all his assholery, the list would be too long and he’d be tempted to kill Lambert.

At least the Witcher actually encouraged Jaskier to sing when they stopped for the night, and listened thoughtfully. He didn’t sing along and join in like Eskel, but he listened, and suggested alternate wording.

Jaskier was so glad to part that he was actually startled when Lambert patted his shoulder heartily and said, “I’ll give your regards to Geralt. He’ll be glad to hear you’re still kicking.”

“Tell him I’ll certainly kick _him_ for not warning me about you,” Jaskier retorted, and Lambert laughed.

Jaskier realized, after that, that he missed traveling with a Witcher.

Sixteen years ago was dim, but he remembered… enjoying traveling with Geralt. Enjoying being in his company on the road. Eskel had been fun, and Jaskier was a little sad that he’d only traveled with him for a day and a night. He could have had fun with Eskel.

The week in Lambert’s company still filled him with anger. But there had been good times, too.

It wasn’t the thrill Jaskier missed. It was just… being with a Witcher. Scratching his itchy feet by trotting at the side of a Witcher on a horse, wandering wherever the Path, as Lambert had called it, took them. They were wells of information, and they were fun to sing about, and—

And they weren’t afraid of him.

He had another brush with Eskel that year, on his way back to Oxenfurt. Jaskier berated him for not telling Jaskier about Lambert’s deplorable attitude, and Eskel laughed.

“I knew you two would get along,” he said with a grin.

They traveled together for two days, this time, before splitting. Winter at Oxenfurt dragged on, and on, and on, and Jaskier was more than glad to leave as soon as the snow began to melt.

It was in summer and he was aiming for the little town of Posada when he smelled _Witcher_.

It was familiar. Not Eskel; he was more like cedar. Not Lambert; he was more like pine.

This was more like maple. And it was as familiar as his own name.

 _Geralt_.

Jaskier plunged into the woods, heedless of the snarled underbrush, and followed his nose up an incline. He knew when Geralt noticed someone approaching, because the scent turned startled and wary, and Jaskier couldn’t help it, he ducked under another branch and called hopefully, “Geralt?”

Silence. And then the sound of a large body crashing through the brush. Jaskier laughed giddily and made it to a small clearing before Geralt barreled into him, lifting him right off his feet and spinning them both three times. Jaskier braced his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and laughed again, then, when Geralt set him gently on his feet, he kissed his Witcher.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss, but it felt so good, so _right_. And when they broke apart, both breathing hard, Jaskier couldn’t help smiling, grinning, taking in every detail of Geralt’s face as if he hadn’t spent entire days just staring at him. But those days were years ago. This was now.

“I missed you,” he whispered, running his fingers through Geralt’s hair and dislodging a few twigs.

His answer was another kiss, and the arms around his waist tightening just the way he liked it.

They didn’t talk on the way back to Geralt’s camp, but they held hands. And when they got to the camp, and sat together on the ground (well, Geralt actually dragged Jaskier on to his lap and held him tightly), they didn’t talk. Jaskier just leaned his head back on Geralt’s shoulder, turned his face into Geralt’s neck, and went limp in his arms, breathing that distinctive smell and feeling so _safe_.

“You’re too thin,” Geralt murmured, running his hand up and down Jaskier’s side.

Jaskier laughed softly and squeezed his Witcher’s forearms gently. “Isn’t that just like you,” he replied softly, fondly. “We finally find each other after years and your first words are about how I’m too thin.”

“Hm.” A gentle squeeze from the arms around him. “You are, though. Why haven’t you been eating?”

“I’ve been traveling all year, my love, and seven years before that. A winter of getting fat doesn’t last long on the road. And anyway, _you’re_ the one who needs your strength.”

“Hmph. Where… are you headed?”

Jaskier smiled and wriggled around enough to kiss Geralt’s cheek. “Wherever you are, my love.”

Geralt tried to argue. He tried for just under three minutes, which was when Jaskier interrupted gently with, “I’m not giving up my time with you just because it might be dangerous.”

Geralt sighed heavily, but said no more.

It was wonderful to be held at night, and hand over bread in exchange for a rabbit, and complain vigorously about Lambert. Geralt’s calm, “He said you were good company,” sent Jaskier into a spluttering, squawking rage, and he ranted for several minutes about Lambert being a _complete dick_ and really why was he even a _Witcher_ when Geralt and Eskel were _such lovely people_ and then this _asshole_ comes along and—

Geralt shut Jaskier up with a kiss. He tasted like rabbit and spring water and gentleness. So Jaskier shut up.

Until a little later when he asked Geralt if he would give his opinion on a song about silly young men who thought they were invincible.

A groan of exasperation made him laugh. “Eskel already sang that one,” Geralt muttered.

“Ah, but I’ve refined it!” Jaskier grabbed his lute, grinning wickedly. “Don’t worry, I didn’t mention names.”

He serenaded Geralt until he was yawning, and Geralt dragged him to bed. Jaskier hummed happily as they settled together, Geralt snug against his back, then dropped off into a deep, gentle sleep.

~

They arrived in the town separately, deciding that Jaskier should go in first to draw eyes and ire while Geralt slipped in and asked about the job. They also decided to pretend not to know each other. This place was famous for being cantankerous and dull, so Jaskier went in with no expectations of being appreciated. He did try, though. He really did.

When they pelted him with bread, he protested, but still picked it up. It’d be useful on the road. Geralt hadn’t left, so Jaskier absently plucked a mug from the tavernwoman’s tray and wandered over to Geralt, leaning on the beam.

“I love how you just sit in the corner and brood,” he drawled, and grinned at the tiny quiver at the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “So! What did you think? You’re the only one who had no opinion on my singing.”

Geralt was definitely suppressing a laugh, but no one except Jaskier and a fellow Witcher would know that. Jaskier had the feeling his amusement would show in his tone if he spoke, thus silence.

“What brings you here? Come ooon, you wouldn’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting!”

Someone snickered. Jaskier watched Geralt’s face slyly, but his facial expression was only different in the deepening of the wrinkles around his eyes. Time to recognize him, then, before the poor man burst out laughing and the whole game was given away.

Walking up the dusty road to where the “demon” lived, Jaskier asked jauntily, “So! What _did_ you think of my song?”

“It was shit,” Geralt replied bluntly.

Jaskier laughed and patted his Witcher’s thigh. “Yes, it was. I wrote it while _extremely_ drunk back in Oxenfurt. I only played it for my friends, really.” His mood faltered—Bel. Bel had been the one to… Then Jaskier hitched on a smile again. “Oh, this’ll be grand!” he caroled. “Finally, an up-close encounter! Don’t worry, Geralt, I’ll stay back far enough to let you work freely.” And also to hope that his monster-blood didn’t show. Eskel had seemed to think it was fine… but what if he hadn’t told Geralt?

They reached the little valley cupped in the yellow sandstone, full of scrub and wispy trees. Geralt dismounted and waved for Jaskier to stay back, slinking around bushes near-silently. Jaskier sighed, took off his boots, and took one deep breath. His feet shifted, and his ears and nose became even more sensitive.

The valley reeked of magic and fear. Not the magic of humans, though. Elven magic. Elves? Here? Jaskier frowned at the stony hills. Yellow… almost golden in the sun…

Golden palaces?

His stomach dropped. He stepped forward just as silently as Geralt, taking deep, quiet breaths. Not just Elves. Something… something he had crossed paths with before. It had been a shy being, but when he had asked it curiously for its name, because it had had the blue glints on its form and thus was not a monster, it had whispered, “Sylvan.”

Had the shyness been just the one being? Or was the entire race like that?

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Jaskier leapt into a run, just in time to see Geralt wrestling with a being that reeked of fear and anger. Yes, it looked exactly like the creature Jaskier had met before. Jaskier hung back, sniffing intently, as Geralt spoke to the creature. Were there more? No, there was only him. But other creatures were sneaking around the perimeter…

Elves!

Jaskier’s years of teaching told him to be afraid. His years on the road, giving food and aid to any elves he met, who always seemed bewildered and frightened to be seen by him, told him to be cautious. They were probably coming to see the disturbance. There was no need to fear them; or even acknowledge them. Maybe they would go away.

Anger and fear flared from the elves too, and Jaskier turned sharply, catching the movement of the elves in the brush and on the heights. Three, coming in low and fast. Jaskier ran to Geralt, ducking a stone probably meant to stun him, and dragged him off the horned creature, startling both of them considerably. Geralt rolled off Jaskier, away from the elves—good, let them hit Jaskier first.

“Fuck,” Geralt hissed, and shoved Jaskier flat, scanning the brush. “How did you know—”

A stone struck Geralt spot on, and knocked him right out.

Normally, it took a threat to Jaskier’s own person to wake the monster-blood. But normally, it wasn’t Geralt out cold with a trickle of blood on his forehead.

Jaskier felt the spines and horns and claws erupt, and spun around and up, stepping in front of Geralt with his fangs bared and his claws crooked, as the elves slowly showed themselves. All of them were very afraid.

As they should be.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Jaskier shouted, and his voice rang more powerfully than it ever had before. “He wasn’t going to hurt you! Didn’t you see his armor, his swords?! He’s a _Witcher_ , not a human!”

The elves stared at him. He glared back, panting with the effort of keeping himself reined in. They had hurt Geralt. They had _hurt_ his _mate_. That was _unforgivable_.

In the back of his head, he wondered at why he had decided Geralt was his “mate”, not his lover. That was monster blood for you, he supposed.

“What the hell are you, then?” one of the elves, a woman with red hair, called warily.

“Fuck if I know!” Jaskier snapped back. “But if you touch him again I _will_ kill you!”

Even more fear. But then the red-haired elf raised her hands slowly, showing that she held no weapons, and began to sidle down the hill towards them. Jaskier tensed further, but made no move to leave Geralt’s side or attack her. For one thing, there were more elves than Jaskiers. For another, if he left Geralt, who was to say someone wouldn’t circle around and hurt him more?

She reached the dusty ground where the tussle had been. Her face was wary, and she was trying to keep it hard, but she was so scared it hurt Jaskier’s sensitive nose. “Why’d they send him?” she asked flatly.

“Theft,” Jaskier replied shortly. “And the villagers thought it was a demon.” He shuddered when she stepped closer, and she immediately retreated again. He was starting to lose that first surge of bloodlust; still furious, still absolutely ready to defend Geralt’s prone form, but less likely to lunge and gut her. They wouldn’t know that, though. He wasn’t going to hide his monster-blood until they were all well and truly parted.

“If you come with us, our king will explain,” she offered.

Jaskier eyed her warily. She was still frightened, but now she was bitter and angry. She wanted someone to know why. She wanted someone to tell the humans to leave them alone. And how lucky, to have both a Witcher, someone humanity feared, and a part-blood, some _thing_ humanity feared.

He didn’t know how he knew her thoughts. But he was… sure, that his guesses were correct. “Fine,” he growled. “But if you hurt him again—”

“You’ll kill us all, yes, yes, we know,” she retorted impatiently, then flinched.

But Jaskier… snorted, and felt the fury fade a little. He wasn’t shaking anymore. “I carry him,” he told her bluntly. “And no tying him up. He won’t kill you.”

“Fine. If you fight us, we’ll kill you both anyway.”

“Fair,” Jaskier bit out, and slowly turned away to pick Geralt up and sling him over Jaskier’s shoulder. He turned back to the elf, who stared at him with less fear and more astonishment, and grunted, “Lead the way.”

It was hard going, and the other elves and the Sylvan watched them fearfully, but Jaskier made no attempts to hurt any of them. They could talk this out. This could be done _peacefully_ , and no one would have to be hurt.

Geralt roused when they reached a cave, and Jaskier hurriedly took him over to the corner the red-headed elf pointed to, letting him down gently. Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s left horn, about to do something painful, then realized who he was gripping, and blinked.

“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered.

“Later,” Geralt replied, and sat up, looking around warily.

Another elf with blond hair that really needed a wash, and an elegantly-embroidered but very dirty wrap, sat carefully on the rock across from them. Jaskier crouched to Geralt’s left, protecting him from the others and leaving his sword-hand free. He hadn’t changed his feet back, so hunkering down on his haunches was surprisingly comfortable.

First the elf in charge—their king?—stared at Jaskier, who stared back defiantly. Then the elf said, “You are familiar to me, but I don’t know your face.”

Jaskier frowned. “What the hell does that mean?” he snapped.

“I am trying to place you,” the elf replied. “I… think I know your race. But I’m not sure. You’re still too human.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

Then the elf turned to Geralt, and his mouth tightened. “I never thought I’d see the day where a Witcher would end up at my feet,” he said bitterly. “What are you here for? To slaughter as many of us as you can? To bring our ears to the village for great reward?”

Jaskier snorted. “As if those bloody skinflints would care,” he retorted bitterly. “Even if we _did_ hate you as much as humans do, there’s no point fighting you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt muttered in a warning tone, and Jaskier subsided. Geralt turned back to the king and said more firmly, “We’re not here for you. The villagers thought there was a demon stealing their food. I won’t kill sentient beings, though. You have as much right to life as anyone else. Let us go and we won’t trouble you anymore.”

There was more back and forth, threats, Geralt’s silver tongue (he was actually quite persuasive when he tried), yelling from the red-head that brought Jaskier snarling to his feet, but Geralt grabbed his ankle and his spines relaxed as he returned to his previous position. Huh, he hadn’t noticed how his spines stiffened and relaxed with his mood.

Geralt did the noble but incredibly stupid thing, and gave up all his money. The elves let them go. Jaskier followed Geralt down to the valley, and from there to the place where Roach was placidly stripping a thorn bush of leaves. She snorted at Jaskier, but calmed as Geralt stroked her mane.

Then Geralt turned and looked Jaskier up and down. Jaskier swallowed hard, took three deep breaths, and drew in the monster-blood.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Jaskier said to his bare feet.

Geralt walked over to him, took hold of his chin gently, and tilted his face up to kiss him, so softly. Jaskier leaned into the touch gratefully, and sighed in disappointment when Geralt backed away.

“As much as I would like to reassure you that I don’t mind, this isn’t really the place for it,” Geralt said, his hand sliding up to cup Jaskier’s cheek. “Come on. Put your boots on and we’ll leave. I’m sure the next town over will have something for us to do.”

Jaskier smiled in relief. “Alright.”

~

They traveled together for the rest of the year. Jaskier usually stayed behind during hunts, and pestered Geralt for details afterwards, but sometimes he snuck after Geralt—and expedited the deaths of the monsters who usually would take much longer to kill, usually by sneaking up on them and tearing their throat out from behind with his claws. Eventually, he got used the feeling of flesh parting for his claws, the sensation of bones or carapaces snapping beneath his hands.

He accidentally said “my mate” instead of “my love” once and froze, horrified; but Geralt, who was actually falling asleep first, simply hummed and cuddled him closer.

When autumn began, Geralt asked, hesitant, almost shy; “Would you like to come to Kaer Morhen with me?”

And Jaskier laughed gleefully and kissed him and replied, “Yes!”


	5. Thirty-five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battered remnants of my sanity barely pulled this together and now I pass it on to you, dear readers. A humble author asks only for your forgiveness.

Kaer Morhen looked very grim and rather sad as they trudged up the path towards it. The little valley was hidden, protected on all sides by mountain, so the snow there, while heavy, was not deep. The stream was frozen over, but Jaskier could hear it burbling as they passed over it.

Geralt had hitched Roach to a small cart, then loaded the cart with supplies from the small town at the base of the mountains that seemed unusually reticent and accepting, and begun leading her up the mountain with much pleading and bribing. Jaskier helped push the cart through thick mud, then deep snow, while Geralt led Roach and begged her to keep pulling. Poor Roach put back her ears, but accepted this indignity for the ten days it took to reach Kaer Morhen.

And now, passing into the courtyard, she snorted and stopped, stamping her hoof. Geralt sighed and unhitched her, then stood back as she pranced a few feet away, and then did a jump and kick that nicked the cart just enough to send it rolling back, right over Jaskier’s foot. He yelped and grabbed the side of the cart, trying not to put weight on his poor aching foot and keep it from rolling further. Roach whinnied in an approximation of a laugh and trotted away, presumably to a stable.

“I’ll start unloading,” Jaskier said through gritted teeth as Geralt hesitated, torn between his horse and his lover. “Go give her a reward before she comes back and tramples us.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, but took a sack of oats and went to the stable.

Jaskier heaved the cart closer to the stairs to the upper courtyard, then sniffed, as a new scent hit him. _Witcher_ , but instead of pine, maple, or cedar, the undertone was like apple wood smoke. An aged smell, even more aged than Geralt. Jaskier looked up, puzzled, to see a man with hair more silver than white, and a magnificent beard, standing at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed. He was frowning.

This must be Vesemir, then. Jaskier grinned and waved. “Hello!” he called, then grabbed a small sack of sugar and another of salt, and started limping up the stairs. Vesemir did not move from the top step, not even when Jaskier stopped a few steps down and said politely, “A pleasure to meet you. May I set these down?”

“So you’re Geralt’s mate,” Vesemir replied instead of moving or answering. “You’re skin and bone, lad.”

Jaskier heaved a sigh. “Not you, too. Look, yes, I’m Jaskier, and my arms are starting to hurt, and I _know_ I’m thin, Geralt’s been commenting on it _constantly_. Can I set these down now?”

Vesemir snorted, but in amusement, and moved out of the way. Jaskier limped up the last few steps and set his burdens down on the stones of the upper courtyard. His fingertips brushed the stone as he steadied himself.

A bolt of the blue light that surrounded his hands snapped from his hand into the stones, and he snatched his hand away and straightened quickly. Turning, he saw that Vesemir was already down the stairs. Good. Jaskier followed, shivering as the wind picked up and the keep itself seemed to groan in answer.

Vesemir and Geralt exchanged a quick hug, then started unloading. Geralt picked up two sacks and a small keg as if they were nothing; Jaskier shook his head and called, “Show-off!”

Geralt just smirked.

Ferrying supplies from the courtyard to the keep itself, and from there to the storeroom, took about three hours. Jaskier kept quiet because Geralt and Vesemir did, and also his foot was starting to ache even worse. By the time everything was inside and the cart was put away in the stable, his entire body was aching and he just wanted to lie down somewhere and not move for a few hours. Dancing and walking and running only built up his legs, not his arms and torso.

He braced his hand on the wall of the storeroom to get weight off his foot, and another zap of blue jumped from his skin to the stones. He jerked back again, stumbled, and almost fell, but luckily caught himself and limped out of the storeroom feeling even more tired than before.

“Sit,” Vesemir ordered him when he returned to the main hall. The eldest Witcher pointed to a sagging couch that was probably a hundred years old, but still looked extremely sturdy.

“Thank the gods!” Jaskier sighed dramatically, and flopped on it lengthwise with his feet up on one arm and his head on the other. “Cushions were starting to feel like a delirium dream on the way up here.”

Geralt lifted his legs and also claimed the couch, letting Jaskier trap him there with his outstretched limbs. Jaskier smiled at him, then turned his head to look at Vesemir. “You’re Vesemir, right?”

“Yes, I am,” Vesemir replied, claiming a chair across from them. “Geralt, why haven’t you been feeding this boy?”

“I’ve been trying,” Geralt grumbled, as Jaskier sat up with an outraged gasp. “He just burns through food like a succubus through a village of nymphomaniacs.”

“I am not a _boy_!” Jaskier snapped, putting his hand to his heart. “I’m thirty-five years old, thank you very much, and I do _not_ need to be ‘fed’ like an undernourished—”

His stomach growled, loudly.

There was a beat of silence. And then Vesemir laughed, and Geralt grinned, and Jaskier scowled at them both.

Apparently that year had been a good harvest; there was more food in the storeroom than usual, and lots of smoked meat. Vesemir had gone down to the village with carefully-hoarded coin a few times and bought fertilizer for the gardens, and sold some herbs to the Healers there that don’t grow down at the foot of the mountains. So while there wasn’t enough to keep four healthy Witchers and a part-blood alive for an entire year, there was plenty for just a winter; and since Eskel and Lambert had promised to also bring provisions, there would probably be enough to keep them all full, even with rationing, until the last snow-melt.

“So there’s no need for you to be so skinny once winter’s done,” Vesemir told Jaskier firmly, smiling slightly as he protested yet again that he was perfectly healthy and didn’t need to be fattened like a goose.

It was barely noon, but Jaskier was already so tired that even the sagging cushions of the couch felt like the softest mattress in existence, and he found himself drowsing as Vesemir and Geralt talked about Witcher things like the weather and less monsters these days but better payment and Geralt admitting that he suspected part of the reason people were paying better was Jaskier’s songs… Jaskier woke from his doze when Geralt moved his legs again and then picked him up.

“Nooo, cold,” Jaskier complained, huddling against Geralt’s chest, but didn’t fight as Geralt carried him away and up some stairs to a room with a comfortable bed and some heavy, warm blankets. It felt so nice to be tucked in and kissed gently. Then Geralt left, and Jaskier sighed and huddled down further, and slept.

~

_Master, Kaer Morhen whispered. The voice was like the creak of old wood, the moan of the wind at night, the groan of settling stones. Master._

_He stood in a dark place underground, where water dripped sullenly and the air smelled like mold and herbs. Raising his hands, he saw that they were claws, but the blue traceries were red now, red as blood, red as a Witcher’s. He was naked, but not cold. He was clothed in a leathery material the color of bone, that seemed to fit him like a second skin—no, it **was** his skin. Or, it had grown out of his skin._

_He stepped forward and put his hands against a wall._

_Master, Kaer Morhen groaned._

“ _I’m here,” he told it, soothingly. Blue and red sparks flowed lazily down his arms and through his hands into the stones. “I’m here now, and it’s going to be alright.”_

~

Jaskier woke up to his stomach trying to eat itself, the hunger was so intense.

Yawning hugely, he crawled out of bed and shoved on his boots again. Just as he stood and realized with a frown that his foot no longer hurt, Geralt appeared in the doorway and said, “Dinner is done. It’s chicken.”

“Oh, excellent!” Jaskier replied, brightening and trotting over to kiss Geralt lightly. He could smell it now, and his stomach complained very loudly that it wanted some of that damn chicken immediately. Geralt chuckled softly and led the way down the stairs and to the kitchen. The sun was setting, so the keep and the valley were in shadow now, and the chill air touched Jaskier’s exposed skin like the fingers of a dead lover. He shivered, but hurried after Geralt to the kitchen.

At least here was warmth. The stove and oven were old and leaky, but that meant heat radiated off them and made the kitchen nice and toasty. Jaskier sniffed the air appreciatively; chicken, definitely, but also fresh bread, and honey, and roasted carrots. Vesemir was carving the chicken, and it felt so… home-like, here. Where Geralt and Vesemir didn’t wear armor, but thick woolen shirts, and there was no fear of the food being off, and no one would spit on them, and they could _rest_.

Tension Jaskier hadn’t even known he’d been holding uncoiled in his muscles, and he felt suddenly lighter. Happier. He sat at the table beside Geralt and snatched a chicken leg before Geralt could take it, grinning as he frowned. Vesemir chuckled.

Jaskier discovered Vesemir’s “conversational weakness”, as it were, in minutes; get him on the subject of history, and he was as open and warm as Jaskier. He was immensely well-read, and had even been an active Witcher during the Great Cleansing, meaning he could give Jaskier a different perspective on it than all the dry human tomes at Oxenfurt. Geralt listened silently as Jaskier and Vesemir talked about politics and history and the laughable inaccuracies of bestiaries written by humans. Jaskier could smell his contentedness, though, and it made Jaskier smile inside.

After dinner, Vesemir and Jaskier went to the library, Geralt trailing after them. Many books were damaged, and some of the oldest were utterly destroyed, but Jaskier immediately realized what he could do while the Witchers kept up their training.

“I can copy out some of these passages,” he offered abruptly, stroking a damaged page lightly. “I brought… a lot of notebooks.”

Geralt snorted. Jaskier pouted at him.

Vesemir frowned a little. “Are you sure?” he asked. “That would certainly be helpful, but it would be a lot of time cooped up in here.”

Jaskier smiled at him. “You say this to me, an academic? I spent ten years at a university where half of my classes required entire days in the library. _And_ I was a junior archivist for a few years. I can handle books, and it will be a nice change to get to read all day.”

After a moment of studying Jaskier’s face, Vesemir nodded. “I’d be grateful, Jaskier.” Then he glanced out the window, at the utter darkness and the snow patting the glass. “But it’s late now, and you two have yet to unpack.”

Jaskier thought about saying he could stay up a little longer, then decided he really didn’t want to bring up his excellent night vision right then. Besides, he was still tired, and he wanted to climb back into that wonderful warm bed. So he let Geralt reel him in with an arm around his waist, and they went upstairs, to unpack.

Jaskier reached out absently to trail his fingers along the wall as they walked up the stairs, and felt like something was being _pulled_ out of his fingertips. He snatched his hand back and took a step sideways, but that made him jam into Geralt, who nearly fell, and by the time they’d sorted themselves out, Jaskier had decided not to tell Geralt what had just happened. A glance at the wall showed five short trails of blue light sinking into the stones.

They didn’t sleep at first. No, first they had sex like they hadn’t had since Oxenfurt; drawn-out and tender and at the end Jaskier’s laugh was breathless and soft, and Geralt hummed in contentment. It was so safe here. Safe enough that they could be vulnerable together for longer than usual. _Then_ they cleaned up and settled in for a nice, deep sleep.

~

_Master, Kaer Morhen whispered, and its voice was the rustle of mice and the whistle of wind. Master has returned._

_He walked slowly up the square spiral stairs, dragging his claws lightly along the wall. Blue and red light streamed from his hand into the stones, and he could feel the keep sighing. It was doing things with his magic. Taking it in and spreading it out. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he realized what was happening. Kaer Morhen was healing. Rock neatened, mortar strengthened, wood became alive enough for a few precious minutes to grow and fill in the holes and dangerous places, beams rising with groans as stones rose gracefully back into place._

_He crouched and pressed his hands to the floor, and his power, his life, sank into the keep and bound them together. Kaer Morhen had been built by the Masters; and now a Master had returned. He owed it to this place to keep it alive, so it could protect its charges. His Witchers. His Wolves._

~

Jaskier was groggy at breakfast for roughly ten minutes, until Geralt pushed a small clay cup of dark liquid towards him and told him to drink.

Jaskier sniffed it suspiciously, but there was nothing bad or poisonous. Just a bitter smell and a hint of the precious sugar they had brought. It was also very hot, and he was very cold. So he drank it.

The bitterness made his tongue want to curl up like an autumn leaf, and the temperature burned his mouth and throat, but it certainly woke him up, and he coughed so hard he was afraid a butterfly would come out. Vesemir guffawed as Geralt chuckled and rubbed Jaskier’s back. When he could finally speak again, Jaskier whimpered, “Why would you do this to me?”

“Because you were falling asleep into your breakfast,” Geralt replied calmly, moving the cup away. “Haven’t you ever had coffee before?”

Jaskier gave a final cough and sat up. “No, never. I would’ve remembered if I had. Gods, what the _fuck_.”

“It’s from the southern lands,” Vesemir explained, still chuckling. “Tea is easier to come by, but coffee is better for waking up. It’s the bitterness. You get used to it.”

“Absolutely not!” Jaskier cried, straightening in outrage. “I refuse to drink more of that stuff!”

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” Geralt asked, hugging him gently.

Jaskier just scowled and continued eating his porridge, gingerly.

Vesemir went to the library to start sorting books, and Geralt took Jaskier on a tour that ended in a small meadow behind the stables. It was currently snowy, but Roach was still prancing around, and seemed to have forgiven Geralt and Jaskier for the bullshit of pulling a cart of supplies, because she trotted right over and nuzzled Geralt, rumbling happily. Jaskier noticed that her coat seemed to be shaggier, and longer. When he asked, Geralt shrugged.

“We have a special mix that goes into the horses’ feed in winter,” he explained. “It helps their coats grow out so they can survive the cold. Roach will be alright with that and her blankets.”

When they returned to the library, after a quick diversion to their room so Jaskier could grab his notebooks and writing supplies, Vesemir had collected a tidy pile of books and placed strips of scrap leather as bookmarks. Jaskier happily plumped down at the desk and carefully took up the first book, a history of the Northern kingdoms. After some direction, the Witchers left Jaskier to it.

Jaskier opened the book to the marked page, squinted for a moment, then opened the first notebook and began copying out the words. There was a drawing at the top right corner of the book he was copying from that had been ripped out. Perhaps some beast; the two paws along the side were cat-like with little spurs, and the hands at the top were heavy claws. Something about that rang familiar, but Jaskier was too absorbed to really think about it.

When he had finished that book, he had gotten the hang of the task, and the next one was easier. He made sure to note pages, lengths, and any notes in the margins that weren’t completely illegible. His bottom began to ache slightly, and his shoulders and back and hand hurt, but he ignored the pain. He’d get used to it.

Geralt interrupted him for lunch, which was the leftover chicken and fresh-roasted potatoes with peas. Then the trio split again, Vesemir and Geralt to fixing whatever part of the keep they could, Jaskier to the books.

It was very late and very dark when Vesemir stopped in to tell Jaskier that dinner was ready. Jaskier murmured, “Let me finish this page,” and before he knew it he’d finished the entire chapter, his hand was cramping, and Geralt was rubbing his shoulders and gently pulling him upright.

“Come on, Jaskier,” Geralt said, “You’ve been at it for hours.”

“And I’m barely done,” he retorted, but stood anyway and let Geralt lead him to dinner.

Geralt tried to tell Jaskier to go to bed, but Jaskier shook his head and said, “I need to finish that book, otherwise I’ll forget where I left off.”

“You could just leave a marker,” Vesemir suggested, looking thoughtful, and not about the book.

“Nah, it’s fine.” Jaskier kissed Geralt’s cheek and went back to his work.

He finished the book, alright. And then he started on the next one, working on into the night, the silver light-dark letting him continue reading without the lamp. There were more drawings in this one, of humanoid creatures with huge horns, the back legs of a cat, and comically wide shoulders, the hands crudely sketched. Jaskier felt like they should be familiar.

He only knew it was morning because Geralt pulled him upright and kissed his neck, murmuring in a voice still husky with sleep, “You left me all alone last night.”

“Did you think of me fondly?” Jaskier teased, leaning his head back and to the side to give Geralt more space.

“Yes,” Geralt replied, peppering his skin with kisses. “Dreamed about you, too. Come upstairs.”

Jaskier marked his place and went upstairs with Geralt.

Vesemir shook his head at them, mainly because Jaskier was limping slightly and they were wearing each other’s shirts. Jaskier didn’t really care.

He finished the books Vesemir had chosen before lunch, and frowned slightly at his two full notebooks and three empty. Glancing at the shelves beside him, his heart sank. He didn’t have enough paper for all of them. Maybe he could scamper down the mountain to the village and buy some more… surely it would be a quicker journey alone and not dealing with a heavy cart.

Then he shook his head, and stood up to go make lunch. His backside ached from the hearty morning fuck and from sitting for so many hours; he hissed and braced his arm against the door frame, to ease up the pressure.

 _Master,_ breathed a voice like the wind past the windows.

Jaskier jerked, and tried to back away from the wall, but his arm was firmly stuck, and blue light was streaming out of his flesh into the wall. He yanked hard enough to hurt his shoulder, but he couldn’t get away—and then the light was not blue, but red—and then he began to feel exhausted, like his soul was being sucked out of his body—

“GERALT!” he yelled, unable to help sounding absolutely panicked—and then he blacked out.

~

_Butterflies swirled around him like a multi-colored tornado. Outside of them was a garden, buried deep under mountain snow. Where he was standing, though, the snow had melted, and the dirt was warm, as if the sun had shone on this spot for a few hours._

_He was tired. He looked down at his claws, and saw that there was no light or color around them._

“ _That was too much,” he said, voice echoing strangely._

_We need you, Master._

“ _Yes, but that was still too much, too fast. I’m so tired.” Tears stung his eyes. “I want to sleep.”_

~

He woke up with Geralt curled around him, sleeping. He wanted to say something—apologize, or explain, or maybe just say Geralt’s name and then cry—but he was tired. When he fell into darkness again, this time, mercifully, he did not dream.

~

It was hard to say anything once he woke up, actually, because Geralt didn’t let him talk. True, his throat hurt, and he was still tired, but he didn’t understand until Geralt said softly, “You were screaming. Your arm was bloody and you were screaming.”

So Jaskier drank the warm soup and cool potion and let Geralt fuss and tried to decide how to explain what he’d been seeing, and hearing, and dreaming.

He felt much better after a few hours, and Geralt finally sat cross-legged on the bed next to him and listened as Jaskier told him everything. Eventually Jaskier realized Vesemir was there, and a hint of cedar told him that Eskel was near, too, but he was still a little shaky and couldn’t make himself focus on anything except telling Geralt.

When he was done, Geralt pulled him into a rough hug, and he returned the embrace, sinking into the feeling of Geralt’s arms, the slow thump of his heart, the delicious scent of Witcher and maple that told him he was safe.

“I have to piss,” he said, surprised at this realization.

“I need to check some books,” Vesemir said abruptly. “This sounds familiar.”

“I’ll go get water, and a Tawny Owl,” Eskel’s voice added quietly.

Two sets of footsteps faded away, and Geralt sighed deeply and kissed Jaskier’s ear. “Alright. I’ll help you up. You slept for a full day.”

“Oh dear,” Jaskier replied.

After relieving himself and letting Geralt change his bandages—his arm really did look terrible, like his skin had been ripped off jaggedly—Jaskier was ready to exit their room and find out what Kaer Morhen had done with his power.

Not much, as it turned out. Jaskier drank the water and potion Eskel gave him, and coughed up a butterfly, then wandered the keep, making sure not to touch the walls. He’d changed shape, and he felt strangely comfortable on his feline feet, his horns heavy but not really giving him much of a headache. He felt a little more energetic from that potion, too. But his search was in vain; he wasn’t enough. He knew that, quite suddenly. He wasn’t enough for Kaer Morhen. He frowned as he wandered back into the main hall, looking around and scratching his right horn thoughtfully. Was there a way to fix that? Was there a way to find more people who could help heal the keep?

No. No, probably not.

He sighed, and turned, to see that Geralt and Eskel had followed him. Before he could ask what the problem was, Vesemir leaned out of the library and called, “Jaskier! I think I found something!”

Jaskier skipped around his Witchers and sprinted over, surprising Vesemir, perhaps with how his energy was already restored. But the eldest Witcher just beckoned him over to the long table, and showed him a passage in a crumbling book that looked as old as the keep itself.

The passage was quite dense with information.

_KAER MORHEN, hallowed halls of the Ancestors, is the Birthplace of the Wolves. The Ancestors saw the numerous Monsters breeding and cross-breeding and threatening to Ravage the Land into mud and blood and dust, and Decided that this was Wrong. So they did what they knew the Gods would Despise: they took their own Blood, and gave it to their Sorcerers, and with the Blood they created the Mutagen that Creates the Witchers. This Recipe was spread to All the Halls of the Ancestors, and Refined by Each, into their own Unique Formulae. The Schools of Witchers were thus Opened._

_Humans were happy to be Tested; the Ancestors taught them to Fight, and to Win, and gave them the Mutagen. Children are the best Recipients of the Mutagen, as they are Healthy and Grow Well when trained Correctly. This the Ancestors discovered, and were Much Dismayed, for the Mutagen is Painful and the Trials are Dangerous. But that is the Way and that is how it is Done, because it is Best. The Ancestors urged Humans to think hard before giving their Children to the Ways of the Witchers, but they did not._

_The Gods Discovered what the Ancestors had done, and turned Humans against them, so that they would Die without bloodying the Hands of the Gods. There are Hidden Lines, and Enclaves Deep in Mountains and Caves and even under the Sea. But the Ancestors do not teach the Witchers, nor is the Mutagen what it Was when it was made with the Blood. It works, however. So I Suppose we must Make Do without the Ancestors. This was Relayed to me from the Mouth of the last Ancestor of KAER MORHEN, Jaskier the Yellow Lark, before He left to find his Mate._

Jaskier re-read the passage more slowly, and swallowed hard. “What does this have to do with me?” he asked, proud of how calm he sounded.

Vesemir pushed another book across the table, and pointed to a single paragraph.

_The Ancestors are featured heavily in the motifs of the older books, and Dalana found sketches that our teacher says are truly from the beginning of the school; she tested the paper and ink for their age. They have humanoid bodies, with feline-like feet, claws instead of fingers, spines on their arms, backs, and legs, and horns like a cross between a ram and a stag. The sketches Dalana found show that they had natural armor, probably some sort of exoskeleton._

The page was utterly unreadable after that; some sort of ink or ichor had been spilled on it. Jaskier clenched his fists and stepped back from the table.

“Well,” he said quietly. “That… would explain some things.”

“I haven’t found anything on Kaer Morhen specifically,” Vesemir admitted, watching Jaskier sharply, “But this is a start. Now I know what references to pull. Do you think you can do more copying today?”

Jaskier looked down at his hands. The claws were still there, heavy and sharp. But the blue glints were back. So he took three deep breaths, and sank back into human form. “Yes,” he said.

First, the Witchers bullied him into eating. He was actually very hungry, and barely hesitated when Geralt refilled his bowl with soup once, and then twice, and Eskel handed him three slices of buttered bread. It was all very tasty, and he only felt a little bit bad.

Then he sat at the desk and pulled his notebook to him and got to work, as Vesemir walked around shelving books and pulling others down. Geralt and Eskel were in the main hall, talking; Jaskier could barely hear them. That was fine. He was busy.

He worked deep into the night again, but came to bed when Geralt asked. He slept without dreams.

~

Lambert arrived at Kaer Morhen just in time to help patch an outer stair that was getting weak. He complained vigorously, but did it anyway. Then he complained about Jaskier being there. Then he berated Geralt for not feeding Jaskier properly on the road, look at him, Geralt, he’s fucking skin and bone. Jaskier kicked him in the shin.

There was no timetable; Jaskier got up when he woke, ate when he was hungry, wrote in between, and slept when Geralt asked. He noticed vaguely that the Witchers watched him carefully when he was within sight. Not hostile or suspicious; worried. Even Lambert, although he hid it best. And there always seemed to be one around wherever he was.

There was one day that was absolutely gorgeous, bright and sunny, the sky clear, the air crisp but not intolerable, where Jaskier went outside. He went to the upper courtyard, knocked snow off the top of the wall, and hopped up to sit on the cold stone and look down into the lower yard. Geralt and Eskel were sparring, and Lambert, who had been Jaskier’s watcher for the past two hours, wandered up and leaned on the wall next to him.

“I’m glad you’re Geralt’s mate,” Lambert said suddenly.

Jaskier almost fell off the wall. He caught himself and stared at Lambert, who was studiously watching the others. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, absolutely poleaxed and trying not to show it, “Are you actually Lambert? Because that sounded quite a lot like _appreciation_.”

Lambert snorted and shoved his shoulder, almost knocking him over. “It was. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Jaskier shook said head, but couldn’t think of how to reply. So they were both silent, watching as Vesemir called a halt to the exercise and walked over to Geralt and Eskel to talk to them.

“He’s better,” Lambert continued, still not looking at Jaskier. “He was pining like a puppy every winter. Now you’re around, and he’s lightened the fuck up. Fuck if I know why. But you’re good for him, so. Thanks.”

Jaskier nodded.

“But also, stop having loud sex, it’s hard to sleep when I can hear my brother fucking.”

Jaskier punched Lambert’s shoulder hard enough that he actually shifted a little. “Oh, fuck off, Lamby.” He did not miss the small smile on Lambert’s face, and kept his own to himself.

Lambert and Eskel traded places, and Jaskier turned his head away and pretended to be watching the clouds so they wouldn’t see his smile when bumped into each other purposefully and Eskel pretended to stumble so Lambert would catch him. Idiots. He was immensely fond of them and not sure why.

The clouds were thin and couldn’t hold much snow, but they were getting thicker, slowly. Jaskier’s smile faded. Snow tonight. They would have to do more shoveling, or take practice indoors.

“What do you think?” Eskel asked, leaning in the same spot Lambert had. “Has he gotten better?”

Jaskier looked at him and grinned. Eskel had a foreboding face, but when it was pink from exertion and he was smiling, he really did just look like a nice young man who ran afoul of some beast while wandering around at night, feeling invincible. “Which of them? Geralt or Lambert?”

“Both. In different areas.”

Jaskier snorted and rocked back a little, watching Geralt and Lambert spar. “Swordsmanship will always evolve, so there really is no “better”, just more adaptable. I think Geralt is pretty good at adapting. And Lambert will always be a dick, so I try not to think about it.”

Eskel laughed softly. “He’s not always a dick.”

“You’re biased. You know, he told me to stop having loud sex, but he refrained from commenting on his own bedroom habits...” Jaskier laughed as Eskel buried his face in his hands, even his ears turning pink as he blushed. “It’s fine, I don’t care, and Geralt doesn’t, either.” Jaskier watched Geralt and Lambert fight with far more aggression than either of them did with Eskel. Then again, Eskel was usually too fast for the others to hit first. Geralt looked so good in that moment, and not just in a sexual way. Jaskier found himself smiling like a fool as his eyes followed Geralt’s every move.

“I’m glad you’re his mate,” Eskel said, recalling Jaskier’s attention. “And I’m glad he’s yours. You… fit together.”

Jaskier looked at his knees and kicked his feet, beginning to blush. “Thanks. That actually means a lot, Eskel.”

“Mm-hm.”

They settled into a companionable silence, until Vesemir called another halt because the clouds were getting thicker. Jaskier considered sliding off the wall so Geralt would catch him, but decided with a sigh that it was probably a bad idea, and instead clambered off on the correct side. Eskel patted his shoulder and they both strolled over to meet the other Witchers as they climbed the stairs. Geralt looked completely drained, but his face lit up when he saw Jaskier, and Jaskier couldn’t help grinning. Who would’ve thought that twenty years ago he was in passionate teenage despair because Geralt didn’t like him.

“Sunning your bones, Jaskier?” Vesemir asked as everyone met and Geralt stepped forward and slid his arm around Jaskier’s waist as easily as breathing. “Or just getting some air finally?”

“Watching the show,” Jaskier answered comfortably, leaning against Geralt. “Got bored finally, too. I filled the last notebook, but there’s some more books in the library that need copying out. I was thinking of going—”

“ _Not alone,_ ” all four Witchers chorused, and Jaskier scowled at them all.

“None of you are any fun,” he complained.

He tried to argue, but with all four of them bending stern glares on him, and taking it in turns to cut up his arguments, he eventually just gave in with bad grace. By that time they had made it inside, and Vesemir ordered his pups (not that the Witchers knew that’s how Jaskier thought of them) to their rooms to wash off their sweat before they froze. Jaskier nudged Geralt until he reluctantly let go and followed the other two upstairs.

Vesemir sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Children, all three of them,” he muttered, then turned to Jaskier. “Which books are left?”

“Three diaries and one history, and an old bestiary that I’m not sure if it’s worth trying to save it,” Jaskier replied, as they started walking to the library. “It’s not just the ink blurring, the pages are rotting, and the glue on the spine is almost completely gone. It looks exactly the same as one in Oxenfurt’s library, though, from the little I can make out; maybe there’s other copies?”

He tripped on the same uneven flagstone he’d tripped on multiple times before, but since he was partially turned to talk to Vesemir, he stumbled in the wrong direction, and automatically put his hand out to catch himself against the wall—

Vesemir grabbed his arm and yanked him upright, and Jaskier stared at the wall, wide-eyed. It had… _moved_. Rippled, moving towards him as he careened towards it. His skin crawled.

Vesemir hurried him through the doorway and said, “I don’t know if there’s copies dating from the same year, or even the same decade, but I’m sure there’s reprints. Let’s look at what it has.”

After some careful examination, the eldest Witcher sighed and agreed that the book was probably worthless at this point and impossible to save, information-wise. He was very approving of Jaskier’s notes, though.

“These are much clearer than any of us could manage,” he admitted.

Jaskier, thinking of Geralt’s sloppy scrawl, smiled a little. He wasn’t really surprised. “Thanks. Is there anything else I can do? I’d love to actually read these books fully, but a break would be nice.”

Vesemir eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. Then he grinned slyly. “How are you with a sword?”

~

“This is SHIT!”

Lambert snorted, then had to duck as Jaskier threw a dagger at him. The blade hit a target behind him with a hard thump, buried so deep in the weathered wood that Jaskier was sure he’d never get it out. Thankfully, he was too tired to draw and throw the second one. He might actually nick Lambert.

Vesemir roared with laughter, and Jaskier’s face burned. Fuck. He’d told himself not to be a child, but these Witcher swords were too heavy for him, and Lambert seemed to think Jaskier should know everything already. Traveling and fighting beside a Witcher was one thing; trying to fight _like_ a Witcher was another.

“You’re lucky his reflexes are slowed, Lambert!” the older Witcher taunted. “A hair slower and we’d be down a Witcher.”

“I _know_ that!” Lambert snapped, scowling so horrendously that Jaskier was actually a little afraid for a minute. But Lambert sighed and lowered his sword and said gruffly, “So, what, did they only teach you daggers at that school?”

“No, but I can’t very well carry a short sword in my boot, now, can I?” Jaskier retorted, glaring at the sword he’d thrown on the ground. “It ruins the illusion of soft and stupid to carry a sword I can use.”

“Oh, so the soft thing is just an illusion?” Lambert jeered. “Certainly fooled me.”

Jaskier drew his other dagger and lunged. Lambert barely got his sword up in time to block him, and then in roughly four minutes Jaskier disarmed him and pinned him to the wall with an arm against his shoulders and the dagger blade touching his throat.

“I am _not_ soft,” Jaskier snarled, then let go and walked away to yank his first dagger out of the target.

There was a very heavy silence as he sheathed both blades, and then Vesemir said firmly, “Lambert, go take a cool-down lap outside.”

Lambert grumbled, but did so. Jaskier took a deep breath and turned around, ready to suffer Vesemir’s disappointment. He knew he was acting like a spoiled brat, but gods, he hurt, and he really couldn’t control his temper right then. Not when he was so humiliated by his lack of skill.

Vesemir walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “I believe I misunderstood you,” he said, which startled Jaskier considerably. “I assumed too much. I don’t think we have any short swords, but Eskel is our best with daggers. How about a rest, and then we’ll try your paces with him.”

Jaskier nodded. After a moment of thought, he looked at Vesemir and asked, “Do you mind if I tell you that you’re a better father than the man who took me in?”

Vesemir looked honestly startled. “Ah… no, I suppose not,” he said.

Jaskier managed a genuine smile through his remaining anger and nerves. “Wonderful. You’re a better father than the man who took me in.”

Vesemir nodded sharply and patted his shoulder again, but Jaskier suspected that the eldest Witcher was flattered. “Get a drink, and I’ll go find Eskel.”

Jaskier nodded and trudged to the kitchen. The snow had started falling in earnest, so Vesemir had brought training indoors. He had told Jaskier that this was only until the snow had a nice thick icy crust, and then he’d send the youngsters out to practice fighting on treacherous ground. Jaskier’s alarm must have shown on his face, because Vesemir had explained that practice on ice in a safe place where they could stop at any time was better than losing their footing in a battle with something intent on eating them. The logic was certainly firm. Jaskier just hoped nobody broke a bone.

He was chugging warm water because he didn’t want to shock his stomach and also he’d lost his final human tooth during the fight and his gums were too tender yet for extreme temperatures, when Geralt sidled up behind him and hugged him, placing a gentle kiss on the side of Jaskier’s flushed neck. Jaskier smiled and leaned back on him. “How are you, my love?” he asked quietly, stroking Geralt’s arm. His own was mostly healed, but hurt badly from exertion.

“Mm,” Geralt replied, in the tone that meant he was content. He smelled like mortar and dirt, but also peace.

“That’s good. Darling, tell me honestly. Was Lambert always a dick?”

Geralt huffed in amusement against his skin. “Yes.”

“He’s actually getting better,” Eskel’s voice said heavily, and Jaskier jumped a little, craning to look over his shoulder (and Geralt’s head) to see Eskel in the kitchen doorway. He looked tired, and a little melancholy. “In the beginning it was like he couldn’t help lashing out. It’s been better, the last fifty years.” Eskel walked over and leaned his hip on the counter next to Jaskier, crossing his arms over his chest. “So please don’t be too angry at him,” he continued. “It’s just that you’re new and he doesn’t know how to place you yet.”

“Hmph.” But Jaskier sighed and straightened to pour another cup of water from the pitcher on the counter. “Alright. I won’t keep any grudges. Geralt love, are you planning to let go of me any time soon?”

“No,” Geralt replied, his face still pressed into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

“You have to, Vesemir wants to see how good he is with daggers,” Eskel informed the other Witcher.

“He’s great.” Geralt tightened his arms around Jaskier for a moment. Jaskier thought absently that Geralt had been unusually cuddly since they came here. Maybe just because this was a place where they could finally relax?

“I have to prove that, my dear.”

Geralt sighed heavily, but lifted his head and stepped back, though he kept his hands on Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier finished his water and set his cup down, then gently removed Geralt’s hands and said, “Alright, I’m ready.”

First Vesemir made Jaskier go through simple moves, on his own and then against Eskel. Then drills, which Jaskier fell into easily; he remembered this from Oxenfurt, and this small reminder of a simpler, safer time made him relax.

“Alright, good,” Vesemir said, and Eskel and Jaskier stepped back, Jaskier panting slightly, Eskel looking fresh as daisies. Geralt and Lambert were watching from the sidelines, and Jaskier felt a little silly, being watched by two fighters who surely knew more than him. Vesemir recalled his attention by addressing both him and Eskel with, “Now we’ll do something different. Five offense moves each, disarm your opponent with those moves. We’ll start with Eskel attacking. Go!”

Eskel surged forward with a feint that Jaskier barely caught, but a stumble became a twist and Jaskier feinted back. Eskel fell for it, and Jaskier nicked his hand trying to disarm him. Eskel reversed his blade and Jaskier barely blocked it. Three more moves and Jaskier’s dagger went flying.

But so did Eskel’s.

Jaskier lunged, knocking Eskel to the ground, twisted their bodies as they fell to catch him in a headlock, and gave him a vicious noogie. Eskel yelped, then laughed and elbowed Jaskier in the ribs, holding back enough that he bruised muscle instead of breaking bone. When Jaskier wheezed and his grip loosened, Eskel rolled away and sat up to kick Jaskier’s hip. Jaskier twisted up on his knees, pushed himself up in a crouch, and bodyslammed Eskel with an elbow to his diaphragm. A heavy “oof!” was the only confirmation Jaskier had that he’d landed correctly before someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. He yelped, because it _hurt_ , then had to laugh as he realized it was Lambert, who shoved him back and leaned down to help Eskel stand.

“I’m fine,” Eskel assured Lambert, patting his chest gently, and grinned at Jaskier. “Are you sure you need daggers when you could probably brawl your way out of a confrontation?”

“Daggers are good for when I’m in a hurry,” Jaskier replied, rubbing his arm. “Much easier to convince someone to let go when they’re bleeding out than if they’ve just got a broken nose.”

“Out of the way, Lambert,” Vesemir said calmly. “Boys, get your daggers again.”

This exercise continued until it was time to start dinner. Jaskier went and did the cooking while Vesemir drilled Geralt and Lambert. Eskel followed Jaskier and sat at the table, watching. Jaskier had gotten used to being followed around, so he was content to just shoot Eskel a grin and get on with preparing the potatoes for boiling and mashing. When the potatoes were in the water, Jaskier fetched the venison Geralt had shot that morning from its marinade bath and cut it up, leaving four chunks aside for his wolves to eat while the rest cooked (he’d been very angry when Vesemir admitted that Witchers needed raw meat too but they’d been trying to hold back in front of Jaskier, and so now he made a point of leaving pieces aside when he cooked—especially organs, since those seemed to be favorites).

“Can I have my piece now?” Eskel asked with plaintive innocence that made Jaskier smile. How much of a scamp had Eskel been as a child? Trying his best to charm food out of whoever was cooking—and managing, usually.

“Yes,” Jaskier replied, put the biggest chunk on a plate, and brought it over to Eskel, who accepted the plate with a delighted grin. Jaskier turned back to building up the fire in the oven so Eskel wouldn’t feel too self-conscious with blood on his face. Him and Geralt, so nervous, so cautious; Vesemir too, though he hid it behind dignity and manners. Lambert seemed to eat his treats in a crude manner just to see what Jaskier would do.

Jaskier’s smile faded, and he removed the pot of organs from the stove as it began to heat in earnest. He’d insisted on that, on keeping pieces warm, and Geralt had told him softly that night that it had tasted good, almost as good as fresh. Jaskier had kissed him and said he was happy to help. But he couldn’t help feeling strange, fishing hearts and livers out of warm blood and plating them for his wolves. The friends of his old life—old lives—would certainly be disgusted.

But… fuck them. Jaskier tightened his mouth grimly and nodded to himself. Fuck everyone who would say this was disgusting or wrong. His Witchers needed to eat raw flesh, and he would happily provide. They were getting plump from his egging them on into eating more than usual, and he was proud to take the blame for their increased, crucial builds. Geralt had already admitted that not half-starving himself made him feel stronger and more energetic.

The smell of roasting venison, and of warm blood, drew the other Witchers quickly. Lambert threw Eskel a dirty look for getting the first piece. Jaskier doled out chopped-up meat and blood like stew, and the Witchers ate it like that. The potatoes and radishes finished before the venison in the oven, and Jaskier served them up to his wolves, taking his place next to Geralt to eat his own portion of vegetables. For a while, the only sounds were chewing and swallowing, and Jaskier humming absently around his potatoes. He hadn’t done much music lately. He was going to get out of practice at this rate. He’d attempt to do some after dinner.

The final serving of venison, and then bread with honey, and then all of the wolves were looking sleepy. Jaskier looked at them all, and felt a sudden swelling of affection. His wolves. His darling Witchers. His mate and their family. Gods, it felt so good to be accepted and loved, even if it was the gruff, silent love of Witchers.

 _Master,_ sighed Kaer Morhen, as it did often these days.

Jaskier ignored it.

After everyone had finished eating, Jaskier banished them all from the kitchen so he could clean up. He tried not to smile as Vesemir grumbled that he wasn’t a damn child, but still left. And Jaskier listened closely as he washed dishes and wiped up blood splatters, hearing the creak of wood and scrape of stone as the Witchers went to their beds. When the kitchen was clean, Jaskier was yawning; he blew out the oil lamp and went upstairs too, rubbing his eyes. Gods, why was he so sleepy and achy? Was he really that out of shape? Hmm, he’d really have to lean into practicing with the others…

Music, he remembered. He was going to practice music.

But when he saw Geralt curled up in bed, breathing slow and deep, he found himself smiling with helpless affection, and climbed in with him without even touching his lute case.

~

_He was in the main hall of the keep, and the stones were whispering urgently. He trembled, so freezing cold, and his blue-and-red sparks swirled around him in agitation._

“ _NO!” he screamed, and the whispers paused. “No, I can’t! I’m just one person!” His tears froze on his cheeks. “I’m just one person, I can’t save you on my own!”_

_MASTER!_

“ _ **NO!** ”_

~

Jaskier woke with a headache. Geralt was still asleep, soft in Jaskier’s arms, and Jaskier smiled and closed his eyes again. But the headache persisted, and finally he sighed and slid gently out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Geralt demanded sleepily.

Jaskier smiled again and turned to lean over and kiss Geralt softly. “To get some water, maybe write some music. Go back to sleep, love.”

“Mm.” Geralt sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. It was all snarled up and adorable and Jaskier wanted to kiss him again, so he did. Geralt accepted this, then grabbed Jaskier’s shirt and hauled him back into bed and Geralt’s lap. Jaskier laughed, but was cut off by a deep kiss that made him sigh and melt. Well… maybe he didn’t have to get out of bed _immediately_. He could just stay here for a moment.

But he really did need water. So they went downstairs together to the kitchen and after Jaskier had drunk a lot, he sat on the bench leaning back on the table, hoisted his lute into his lap, and started strumming softly, humming a tune that had been echoing in his head for a while. Geralt listened silently, smelling calm and content.

Vesemir found them first, and carefully made his single serving of coffee, looking grumpy.

Eskel came next, yawning, and sat on Jaskier’s other side, watching blurrily as Vesemir shuffled around starting a pot of porridge.

Lambert stumbled in last, and sat on Eskel’s knee so he could hide his eyes against Eskel’s shoulder (and probably also for the hugs).

Breakfast was just as quiet as dinner the day before. It was… honestly a little strange. Even with reticent Witchers, Jaskier was pretty good at making conversation. But he just… didn’t really feel like opening his mouth for more than eating. And after eating, he went to sit on the couch and compose lyrics, singing them under his breath to test how they felt and sounded. The Witchers all followed, and the younger three sprawled on the floor while Vesemir took his chair. Jaskier wondered at this, but silently.

Then he realized it was still very, very dark. His internal clock said the sun should be lightening the sky, but the windows were dark. He paused in his composing, and looked around, frowning.

“Why’d you stop?” Lambert grunted from the floor.

“I…” Jaskier blinked hard. “I thought the sun would be up by now.”

“Nah,” Eskel replied, “Sometimes storms get caught up here and we don’t get sun for days.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt murmured from the floor at Jaskier’s feet. “Keep singing.”

Jaskier sighed melodramatically. “Oh, _fine_.” He started singing again, the first song he could think of. Ways To Kill A Demon, oddly enough. He suddenly remembered being fifteen, asking a poorly-trained minstrel to play this song on his poor abused harp—how he’d disobeyed Geralt’s orders to stay hidden because he was cocky and bored and a child. Had it really been twenty years? It felt like a thousand…

His mind drifted as he sang familiar chords, ruminating on his first time traveling with Geralt. A strange time. Was this what was meant by “true love”? Coming back, choosing him, again and again, over anyone else? Maybe. He had an inkling from the books that Witcher mates were supposedly predetermined. But… he didn’t think so. That he fell in love with Geralt as a child was inevitable. That he fell in love again, as an adult? Not predetermined. Just a toss of a coin. He’d only recognized him on that horrible hunt, when he’d held off a banshee with one little iron knife. If he had chosen not to go—if it had been someone else who led Geralt—if he’d turned back—too many ifs. It was just blind luck. There was no destiny or predetermination to loving Geralt.

Or… maybe there was. It had been inevitable. Maybe that was the same thing.

Jaskier slid into a ballad he’d written at the tender age of twenty-one, about falling in love. He didn’t really do it consciously. It just… happened. And then that song he’d sung for the exams. The unrequited love one. And then an ode to adventure, a song about a king who led an army against a wyvern and lost, but then a pair of Witchers arrived and slew the beast. Jaskier hadn’t decided on an end for that one, so he paused, frowning off into the distance as he thought.

“And then the king paid the Witchers half of the reward and claimed it was because he’d worn the beast down himself,” Lambert grunted.

“No, too depressing,” Jaskier replied absently. “I was thinking the full amount, and he told them to split it, but the villagers were so grateful that they gave the Witchers three nights at the inn for free and enough ale to be drunk for five days. But that’s hard to work out. Been picking at it for a year and I’m still not sure...”

“You’re an optimist,” Eskel sighed.

“What’s wrong with optimism?” Jaskier retorted. “ _Someone_ has to be cheerful around you realists. Oh! Wait, I think I have it!”

It was fun, all five of them arguing over rhyming and melody. Granted, Geralt was the only one who knew the right musical terms, but he was also the quietest, apparently content to let everyone else do the talking. Lambert was very insistent that Jaskier be as realistic as possible, Eskel thought the chorus overpowered the verses, and Vesemir wanted to know why Jaskier thought it would take two Witchers to kill one wyvern. Jaskier greatly enjoyed jousting with words against the whole pack, and eventually overpowered them all with sheer determination.

They were all much more awake when Vesemir clapped his hands once, stood, and said, “Alright, boys. Get up. Since we can’t go out, we’ll practice inside. Jaskier, same exercises with Eskel. Geralt, Lambert, you both need to work on your footing.”

Groans from all four younger men, but they all stood, fetched their weapons, and paired off. Vesemir put them to different warm-ups, and soon all stiffness had been eased away. So Geralt and Lambert were set to some baffling (to Jaskier) exercise where they went through different styles of fighting according to some strange formula, and Vesemir drilled Jaskier and Eskel for a while, before ordering them, “Five moves or fewer. Begin, Jaskier leading.”

It was actually fun, this exercise. It was like a chess game, only with the frisson of danger that came with handling a sharp object in an aggressive manner. Jaskier enjoyed it even when Eskel disarmed him, which was roughly three-quarters of the time.

After about an hour of that, Vesemir made Eskel grab a sword, let Jaskier have his second dagger, and set them to fighting like that. This, Jaskier was surprised to find he was comfortable with. Even though the longer reach of the sword meant that getting close was dangerous even in a practice spar, it was just the chess exercise, and even though Jaskier lost, at least he did well enough that the Witchers were surprised. All except Geralt, at least, who smiled very slightly.

The second bout was when things went to shit.

Eskel was a lovely man, very kind, knew how to pull his punches on weaker trainees. But accidents happen, and Jaskier barely realized there was a long cut on his cheek from the tip of the sword before his body shifted and he instinctively dropped one dagger to grab Eskel’s blade, yank it out of his grip, and lunge. Eskel dodged just in time and hooked Jaskier around the neck to pull him up short. Jaskier managed to suppress the instinct to savage Eskel’s arm.

“Is it bad?” Eskel asked Vesemir over Jaskier’s head. Vesemir was approaching with narrowed eyes, and grabbed Jaskier’s chin to turn his head for better inspection.

“It’s already healing,” Vesemir replied, surprised, then let go, as did Eskel. “Hmm. Jaskier, lad, you’ve already said you’re more a brawler than a swordsman; how are you with those claws?”

“Ah, pretty good, I’d say,” Jaskier replied, flexing them nervously. “I helped Geralt with some contracts when in this shape. It’s easier if I can sneak up behind, though, when other monsters are distracted.”

“What about that troll you killed on the road?” Lambert asked suddenly. “ _You_ were the distracted one then.”

“The kikimora last summer,” Geralt added. “It knew you were there.”

“If I recall correctly, you told me you had a run-in with some ghouls,” Eskel continued.

Jaskier blushed and scowled. “Easy beasts,” he snapped. “I’m not very sneaky, you all know that.”

Geralt shrugged, but he was smiling slightly. Lambert rolled his eyes and Eskel shook his head. Vesemir stroked his beard, thinking, and then asked, “How about unarmed combat exercises, lads? We haven’t done those in a while.”

“Because we don’t need to,” Lambert muttered sullenly, but the Witchers set their swords aside and taught Jaskier how to fight with his fists. He knew some rudimentary brawling skills—he’d never said his tavern-trawling university days were always peaceful—but he’d never been polished up and learned how to knee someone in the groin reliably without hurting himself from over-enthusiasm, or how to punch someone in the throat, or how to pinch the right nerves in an attacker’s hand to make them let go. But on the flipside, the Witchers weren’t used to kicks against humanoids, and Jaskier laughed and showed them how to kick someone’s leg the right way to break their kneecap, and how if you were flexible enough you could do a high kick to someone’s chin and snap their neck, and how if you _weren’t_ flexible enough you could always just kick someone in the chest; a human would just drive an attacker back, but a Witcher could probably break ribs or crush lungs if they built up the movement and muscles.

It was quite fun, actually, and lunch was pushed back two hours. Finally, though, they all had to eat or they would fall over, so after some cool-down stretches, they trooped to the kitchen, where they all had venison sandwiches and leftover mashed potatoes. Jaskier fried several chopped-up potatoes in a pan while the others ate their sandwiches, and ordered them all firmly to eat until they were _actually_ full.

“I’m going to be so tired of potatoes by spring,” Eskel sighed.

“They’re good for you,” Geralt and Jaskier chorused, and Jaskier laughed.

Baths after they’d eaten; there was a communal bathing room, but the Witchers had deemed it too big for just the four of them long ago, so now they all had separate bathtubs, large enough to lounge in. It took a lot of large cans of water heated over each fireplace to fill each tub, but finally Jaskier and Geralt could close the door and Jaskier lounged against the side of the tub, singing softly, as Geralt took first turn. Jaskier was very careful not to let his bare hands touch the stone floor.

“Do you like it here?” Geralt asked suddenly, drawing Jaskier’s attention.

Jaskier turned his head to see that Geralt was studiously not looking at him. It was adorable—and sad. Jaskier reached out and pushed some wet strands of hair from Geralt’s eyes with his fingertips. “Yes, love. I like it here quite a bit. Especially when I get you all to myself.”

“Hm,” Geralt said, in the tone that meant he was skeptical, but didn’t want to make an argument. Jaskier rolled up on his knees and kissed Geralt firmly, drawing a protesting groan when he backed away.

“I like it here,” he said firmly, holding Geralt’s gaze with his own. “I like you silly wolf-boys, and I like how peaceful it is here, and I like that none of you laugh at me unless I try, though it’s rather insulting when I try and you don’t. I like that I don’t have to worry about you getting hurt. I love being with _you_ , Geralt. Anywhere you are is a good place to be.”

Geralt looked so stunned that Jaskier’s heart ached. “Oh, my love,” he murmured, cupping Geralt’s cheek in his hand. “Why would you think I would ever dislike your presence?”

“I… thought you’d get tired of me,” Geralt said, haltingly, and softly, like it was a shameful secret. “We’re… stuck here, together.”

“And I love every minute of it. It’s not like we’re joined at the hip. We’re both doing different things usually, sometimes too far apart to even smell each other. That’s enough like being apart for me.” Jaskier smiled and swiped his thumb gently over Geralt’s cheekbone. “I’ll never get tired of you. Maybe I’ll get tired of you not telling me things when we’re traveling, but you, yourself, as a person? Never. Now finish your bath, so I can have mine.”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier sat back and started humming again, as quiet splashing resumed. When Geralt finished, Jaskier took his turn, with fresh water warmed to a toasty temperature, but not nearly as hot as Geralt liked it. Geralt insisted on washing Jaskier’s hair, and Jaskier laughed, but allowed this. And since it was time to anyway, when he was out of the tub and sitting on a raggedy towel spread over a bear-skin rug in front of the fire, Jaskier cut his hair. He was very good at doing it without a mirror. Geralt watched, and helped wipe off the clippings stuck on Jaskier’s damp skin, and when they were both dry they put on fresh clothes and went down to see what other chores Vesemir had planned.

~

Winter melted away, and though there were a few more accidents where Jaskier accidentally brushed bare skin against walls or floors and was left woozy for hours, and he received nicks from blades that he was just not fast enough to dodge, he realized that he very much enjoyed this place. It was interesting to read all the strange books in the library, and learn to fight, and eat enough food that he actually put on weight.

Geralt accidentally slashed his cheek because Jaskier hadn’t told anyone that he’d had a brush with Kaer Morhen again, and Jaskier laughed when all four Witchers immediately surrounded him to jostle for the dubious honor of helping him. “It’s alright, love. Now I fit in with you lot!”

It was a sad goodbye when Eskel left first, on the first beautiful sunny day. Vesemir, Geralt, and Jaskier gave their goodbyes first, then went back inside and waited for Lambert to finish. He came in scowling ferociously, and was absolutely intolerable for the week until he left as well.

Jaskier started getting itchy feet as snow melted and dirt became mud. Finally, Geralt decided the mountain track was clear enough, and the two of them left Vesemir and Kaer Morhen. Jaskier looked back once at the keep standing tall and weary, bracketed by mountain peaks… and blinked. Because Kaer Morhen didn’t look weary anymore. It looked… settled.

It was almost home.

He faced forward, frowning a little. Then he looked over at Geralt, murmuring soothingly to a grumpy Roach, and felt himself smile. No. Home was with Geralt. Home was always with Geralt.

~

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier, who was staring at the men approaching them. Two of them. Probably in their fifties. Very familiar.

The Gryphons.

Jaskier kept telling himself to move, to run, to disappear into the crowd—but his legs were trembling and he could barely breathe. He remembered their threat. Gutting him, not for sleeping with their sister, but because—because—

Bel’s face white and still on a pillow with a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth—

“Julian Alfred Pankratz!” the eldest Gryphon yelled, and Jaskier took a big step back, eyes darting around, looking for an escape. “We need to talk to you!”

“Who did you sleep with now?” Geralt sighed, then blinked. “...Jaskier. Jaskier, what the fuck.”

Jaskier forced a smile at the Gryphons, but his blood was pounding in his ears and he wanted desperately to change shape and _run_. “Hello,” he said weakly when they were in speaking distance, barely noticing Geralt angling to overlap him in case swords came out. “H-how are you?”

The eldest Gryphon sighed and stopped a few feet away. “We… would like to apologize,” he said stiffly.

This was _so_ not what Jaskier expected that he could only gape at them.

“Bel’s death wasn’t your fault,” the younger brother said gruffly, looking embarrassed. “They found the culprit a year after you disappeared.”

“They did?” Jaskier replied softly, his weak knees feeling less like water and more like joints. “But...”

“One of the parents,” the elder Gryphon said sourly. “Wanted to clear the competition so their brat could win. They were merchants, apparently, so their Guild turned them out and strongly encouraged those who bought from them to abstain.” He sighed. “So… we are sorry we threatened you. We know you and Bel were close. We weren’t thinking.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, because that was all he could think of to say. He swallowed hard, and said, “Well… thank you. For not actually gutting me.”

Both brothers looked slightly ashamed. “Bel talked about you a lot,” the youngest brother blurted. “Said you were his lifeline. We shouldn’t have assumed that rumors were right. Is… is there a way we can… you know. Make it right?”

Jaskier looked down at his feet. He was still shocked. He’d thought about Bel, cried over him, but the grief and fear hadn’t hit him this hard in… fuck, at least a decade. And now Bel’s brothers were apologizing? Even though they were right?

If Jaskier hadn’t been a threat, Bel would be alive. Right?

Jaskier bit his lip, then looked up at the brothers. “I don’t think there’s any need,” he admitted. “I’ve… thought about him, a lot. And I can’t think of any reason you would need to apologize. Except maybe that I think he’d be annoyed that you believed rumors.” Jaskier managed a tiny, real smile, as the Gryphons stared in surprise. “Thank you for the apology. That’s all I need. And—and I’m sorry, too.”

The eldest Gryphon frowned, worriedly; the youngest sighed and slid past Geralt to hug Jaskier. He smelled strongly of lavender and amber, but there was a hint of something that reminded Jaskier very forcefully of Bel’s scent. So Jaskier hugged back, automatically.

“Thanks for saving his life,” the brother said, his voice rough. “He was happier when you were friends.”

Jaskier swallowed hard and nodded. He wasn’t really sure what that meant—Bel hadn’t been suicidal that Jaskier knew—but he was willing to accept that thanks.

The Gryphon brothers left. Geralt stared at Jaskier with obvious confusion. Jaskier stared back, feeling drained and fragile.

“What was that about?” Geralt asked.

“Later,” Jaskier replied.

‘Later’ was midnight, in their room at the inn, when Jaskier had thought Geralt had forgotten. But no, as soon as their first kiss of the night broke, and before things could get heated, Geralt asked, “Why did those men think you killed someone?”

Jaskier swallowed hard, and pressed his face against Geralt’s neck. “I… it was… a long time ago.”

Geralt stroked his back softly, soothingly. He didn’t say anything, but it was his expectant silence. Jaskier bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of a way to get out of this—but he couldn’t. So he sighed heavily and told Geralt, in a whisper.

About Bel. About their friendship. About how Bel was more suspicious of Geralt than anyone else, and Jaskier had begun to think maybe he’d meant more to Bel than Bel had to him. About the death-spell—

About Bel dying right in front of Jaskier—

About the spell still active, still using his guilt, because it was Jaskier’s fault, if it weren’t for him Bel would be alive—

He hadn’t realized he’d started crying until Geralt hushed him softly and hugged him tightly and murmured, “It wasn’t your fault, Jaskier. It was the people who set the spell. Not you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was,” Jaskier said thickly, and a small sob escaped him. “It was because of our bond, because he was my friend—”

“And even if you had had no friends at all, the spell still would have bounced and hit someone,” Geralt replied firmly. “It wasn’t your fault that he died. And I will continue saying that until you believe it.”

Jaskier couldn’t think of how to reply with words, so he just cried, clutching Geralt and wondering dully if he would ever be able to think of Bel without these waves of guilt. Probably not. Because it _was_ his fault. It was nice of Geralt to say it wasn’t, but truly, it was. The spell had been intended for him, and it hadn’t worked. He was at fault. He just was. No amount of reassurance from his mate would make him believe otherwise.

But Bel had said strange things, sometimes. About how Jaskier should still strive to be happy when Bel wasn’t there. And Jaskier had always answered, “Bel, you’ll always be here. And I’ll always be there for you. You’re my best friend, that’s what friends _do_.”

Was that what the brothers had meant? Had Bel really been holding on for him? Wanting to make sure he was happy?

Would Bel be upset if Jaskier kept blaming himself for his best friend’s death?

He didn’t know. No one would ever know. So there was no point wondering.

Jaskier missed Bel so much in that moment.

~

It was better in the morning. He didn’t feel raw and afraid. But he still clung to Geralt’s hand a little tighter than usual, chattered a little too much and a little too brightly, tried to fight the grief. It was almost spring. He realized as they stepped on to the road out of the town that it was the anniversary of Bel’s death. How poetic.

He looked at Geralt, who was watching him with worry and sadness and… and love. And abruptly, Jaskier remembered how Bel would sigh loudly when Jaskier talked about his annual lover, and give him the usual warnings… and after the first two years, started muttering, “As long as you’re happy,” under his breath.

Would Bel want Jaskier to be happy? Maybe.

It was still Jaskier’s fault.

But he could be happy, for his best friend.


	6. Fifty

“...and that’s really all there is to the story of our first meeting.”

“You left out your being a bratty little shit,” Geralt grunted, tying off the end of Ciri’s braid.

Jaskier stuck his tongue out at Geralt as Ciri giggled. It had been a few months since Geralt had accepted Ciri as his new daughter, and even though Jaskier still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened with Yennefer that had made Geralt act so oddly to Jaskier up until she left on the mountain, he was more than willing to accept every apology, and also take over the role of ‘sillier parent’. Ciri was a delightful little imp, and her obvious trauma and fear did not dampen that. Jaskier was delighted to be part of her new family.

“I was _not_ a brat,” Jaskier retorted with dignity, drawing himself up from his seat on the floor, “I was a perfectly wonderful child, and you know it.”

“Brat,” Geralt replied flatly, but he was smiling a little.

“But you stayed at Oxenfurt, and he moved on,” Ciri urged Jaskier, apparently fascinated.

“Yes. I spent much too long a time being utterly heartbroken. But I got over it. And then he came back!” Jaskier shook his head in mock disbelief. “The _nerve_!”

“ _You_ had a lot of nerve approaching me in the first place,” Geralt broke in.

“That doesn’t count, I was young and stupid. You have no excuse for being at that tavern.” Jaskier stopped, and cocked his head, listening to the sound of raised voices outside. Geralt heard too, and Ciri watched them both, warily, as they held very still.

The voices moved off, still arguing, down the street. They were arguing over a woman. Nothing caught Jaskier’s ear that sounded like it would be dangerous to Ciri, so he relaxed. “Oh, I will be so glad to reach Kaer Morhen,” he sighed, rubbing his head vigorously. “Anything else you wanted to know, love?”

“Yes,” Ciri replied, “Are you sleeping together?”

Geralt turned red and his mouth went tight. Jaskier laughed, and nodded with a grin. “Sometimes,” he told her. “Although I think Geralt would perish if I went into detail.”

Ciri wrinkled her nose and made a face. “I would, too. Um. How long until we reach… Kaer Morhen, you said?”

“Not that long,” Jaskier replied, frowning as he thought about it. “Geralt? Thoughts?”

“Maybe a month,” Geralt answered. “I’ll still need to take contracts.”

“Of course.” Jaskier tapped his fingers on his knees, thinking, then smiled at Ciri. “How would you like to learn to steal?” he asked her impishly. “Since we can’t risk drawing attention by, well, being attention-grabbing, I don’t think I’ll be able to do much performing. But theft can get you pretty far, if you’re good at it.”

Ciri looked thoughtful, then nodded. “I can do that. Grandmother said—” her voice caught, but she powered through, “that I wouldn’t be lifting long swords as much unless I had the kind of intense training she had, but Grandfather said I’d make a good thief.”

“How lucky, then, that your foster-father uses a long sword and his mate is a thief on the side!” Jaskier replied cheerfully. “We’ll practice stealing on the go, and you’ll have three uncles to help with the swordsmanship. You’ll be safe, Ciri, love. Nothing’s going to hurt you while you have Witchers around.”

~

Somehow, they narrowly avoided soldiers and spies all the way to Kaer Morhen, only to find that Yennefer had beaten them there. She tried being cold and mean to Geralt and Jaskier, but when Geralt was cold back and Jaskier didn’t care, she was apparently confused, and instead paid attention to Ciri.

Vesemir was protective of the princess as soon as he was informed of the situation, and Jaskier couldn’t help laughing. Vesemir was a good father-figure, but now he had a granddaughter, and that was immediately more important. Geralt had to spend three hours assuring Vesemir that yes, she was safe, yes, they had given the enemies the slip, and yes, she was willing to start training once she had settled in.

Jaskier, meanwhile, cooked dinner and taught Ciri and Yennefer how to make food. Yennefer apparently had never cooked anything, preferring to buy or steal with magic when she wasn’t being treated or at a fancy banquet; Ciri was a princess and hadn’t really ever learned how her favorite meals were made. So Jaskier sighed quietly to himself and let Ciri gleefully pound the bread dough into submission while Yennefer watched in fascination as Jaskier fried vegetables.

It was odd. When she was utterly out of her comfort zone, but had no reason to fight to get back to it, Yennefer was actually decent company. She didn’t even jeer at Jaskier for being “unmanly” by doing the cooking.

Ciri was just proud to have been part of the process of bread-making, and Jaskier was proud right back.

Of course, the Argument began over the dinner table.

“Shouldn’t Ciri come with me?” Yennefer asked sweetly, her eyes narrowed and his smile mocking. “Since she’ll need proper training in magic?”

“No,” Vesemir said bluntly, making Yennefer’s smile slip in surprise. “She’s a Witcher’s child. She stays with the Witchers.”

“You know, she is right here,” Jaskier pointed out sharply, glaring between them. He then looked down at Ciri sitting next to him, who had stopped eating and was watching the adults warily. “Ciri, love, what is most important to you right now?”

She looked down, as everyone looked at her, and said nothing for a moment. Then she looked up at Jaskier and said firmly, “I want to stay with you, and since you stay with Geralt, that means I stay with the Witchers.”

Yennefer spluttered for a moment, then quieted as Geralt glared at her. Then Geralt hugged Ciri gently and murmured, “Alright. We’ll do that. Yennefer, you can stay for a while, I guess, but no bullshit. You’re here to teach her, not fuck with the rest of us.”

Yennefer pressed her lips together, then went back to eating, stabbing her food with her fork as if she really wanted to stab someone else. Vesemir watched her with great distrust; Geralt, Ciri, and Jaskier didn’t.

Over the next few days, the Argument came up several times, always outside of Ciri’s hearing. Jaskier got tired of listening to Vesemir and Yennefer snipe at each other while Geralt tried to work with them on a split-custody schedule, and instead showed Ciri around, helped set up her own room, and found the smaller practice swords for children that Vesemir had put away in the armory. They counted as short swords to Jaskier, so he started teaching Ciri the basics of sword fighting, and also playing the lute, since she hated singing but liked music. And she needed art to balance all this fighting.

Vesemir took over her book instructing; Yennefer started teaching her how to build control, and thus power; and Geralt took Jaskier’s place with sword work, moving him to daggers and cooking. Two weeks passed, and finally a plan of action was presented to Ciri. She was welcome to live full-time at Kaer Morhen, but Yennefer could also take her to the school of sorcery where Yennefer had gone, to fine-tune her control and learn new skills as well.

Ciri had looked up at Geralt, thoughtfully, then turned to Yennefer and said flatly, “You bespelled both of my fathers for the fun of it. I’m staying here. I’ll learn from you, but I won’t live with you.”

Jaskier was so proud of her, and also felt a bit guilty for talking to Geralt about the problems with Yennefer where Ciri could hear. But, well, the look on Yennefer’s face as she tried to deny this while still saying that she was the better option because she _was_ powerful enough to do that, was absolutely worth it.

So Ciri became the new pup of Kaer Morhen.

~

Jaskier kissed Geralt, hugged Vesemir and Ciri, made a rude gesture at Yennefer, and descended into the deepest bowels of the keep.

 _Master,_ hissed the stones. _Master!_

Jaskier reached out, and, for the first time since his first winter here, he let his fingers trail down the wall. Every year, he’d given Kaer Morhen a bit of himself, negotiating fiercely at night in the basement as the keep groaned at him. But this year was going to be different. He’d drunk a Tawny Owl potion, allowed Yennefer to “fill” him with Chaos, and was going to give more of himself than he ever had. He felt uncomfortably full of power, barely leavened by the steady stream of blue and red that left his fingertips, which slowly morphed into claws.

He reached the door to the crypt. It swung open without him touching it, and he stepped forward into a darkness not even his eyes could see through.

No matter. He walked forward carefully, until his toes found the edge of the precipice. The heat was horrendous here. This crack beneath Kaer Morhen reached straight down into the heart of the mountain, and then deeper still, to the molten rock deep beneath the earth. There was a spell here; a feeding-spell. The slow, endless power of the planet was supposed to feed Kaer Morhen—that was the spell the Ancestors had created. But it had eroded with the eradication of the Ancestors. And as the last remnant, Jaskier was the only one who could manipulate this very specific magic.

He reached out, over the deadly pit, and clenched his fists. The tips of his claws pierced his palms, and blood dripped from his hands down in the pit. Nothing happened.

And then suddenly he could see, as the waning spell flared in recognition.

It was both the bright blue of a summer sky and the deep red of dried blood, tangles and glyphs and delicate webs, beautiful and terrifying. Jaskier took a deep breath, opened his hands with his palms facing up, and let the spell latch on to his hands, and batten on his blood—and the magic deep in his flesh.

~

He made it halfway up the stairs before he collapsed, gasping and trembling. That was… too much. He had given too much. But the spell was renewed, and Kaer Morhen did not need his personal magic.

He was so tired.

Eventually someone came and picked him up, and carried him up the stairs to the basement where the others had been. He didn’t even have the energy to squirm. Witcher and maple. Safety.

“Is he alright?” Ciri asked, sounding far away.

“He’s used up,” Geralt replied, his voice rumbling in Jaskier’s ear. “He needs sleep.”

“And healing,” Yennefer added, actually sounding concerned. “All the Chaos I gave him is gone, and I can’t feel his magic, which means it’s been completely drained. Notice his body?”

Vesemir swore vividly; Jaskier wanted to tell him not to swear in front of Ciri, but he was too tired. “You’re right. Put him to bed, I’ll be right up.”

Jaskier fell into darkness. He was safe. They were all there and alive. It was going to be alright.

~

It took a few days, but Jaskier was finally allowed out of bed without assistance, and on that day he deliberately put his hand against the wall of his and Geralt’s bedroom and demanded, “Well?”

 _Sated, Master,_ Kaer Morhen sighed.

“Good.” And he left the room to find some food.

His adventure in the crypt had stripped the fat from his body and reduced his muscle-mass, so for two weeks, his diet was watched sharply and he wasn’t allowed to exert himself too much. He scowled and grumbled, but at least watching Lambert and Yennefer come close to tearing each other’s throats out was fun.

Eventually Yennefer left, after assigning Ciri homework for the week until she returned. The tension drained out of the Witchers, and Jaskier and Ciri resumed lute-practice in the evenings. Eskel and Lambert fought viciously for the post of “favorite uncle” until Ciri told them both bluntly that there was no way she could accept them as her uncles if they kept making it a competition. So they gave up. Mostly.

Geralt held Ciri when she cried for her grandparents.

Jaskier sung to her when she had nightmares.

Eventually, she started laughing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE. COMPLETE. FINISHED.
> 
> *sobs*
> 
> Also, my deepest, DEEPEST apologies if this is an unsatisfactory ending. I am just. Really bad at finishing things. But it's done now. Thank you to all the lovely readers who stuck with me through this! And thank you to new readers! You're all wonderful! <3

**Author's Note:**

> *lays out my tarot cards* Let's see, it says in your future you will leave a comment, and that it will spur on further writing. Thoughts, traveler?
> 
> Also I'll try to have a schedule for this, say every Sunday?


End file.
